A soldier’s return – the long road back

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The war was over – or at least, part of it was. When Ted Mayhew was finally liberated in May 1945, it coincided almost exactly with Victory in Europe (VE) Day on the 8th of May – his 26th birthday.

In London and across Britain, crowds filled the streets, cheering and celebrating the defeat of Nazi Germany.  But for Ted and hundreds of thousands of returning prisoners of war, freedom was not so simple.  Many, after years of captivity, felt dazed and disconnected.  One writer compared it to ‘waking up- gradually – from a bad dream’[i], however, for some, the nightmare wasn’t over yet.

Ted returned to stay with his parents in Fulham, but he was no longer the same young man who had left for war.  Nearly five years of brutal imprisonment had taken their toll. His parents’ lives had changed too – bombed out during the Blitz, they had been forced to move into a tiny ground-floor flat with no bathroom.  There was no room for their son.  Ted had to sleep on a sofa bed in the living room, a guest in what should have been his own home.

Despite food rationing, the British government recognised the prolonged deprivation many POWs had endured, allowing them to buy twice the usual quantity of food during their recuperative leave.  Ted, who had weighed just six stone at the end of the Long March, was expected to put on weight and regain his strength.  But not just for his own health – there was another reason.

Though Europe was now at peace, the war with Japan was still raging.  Military planners had no certainty that it would end soon.  The atomic bomb was still a top-secret project, and in the minds of the British military strategists, a long and bloody final campaign, code named ‘Operation Downfall’, was already being prepared.

The plan was vast: an invasion of Japanese-occupied Malaya and Singapore, followed by a full-scale ground assault on Japan itself.  It was estimated that 268,000 Allied troops would be killed or wounded in the process[ii].  But after years of war and captivity, British and Commonwealth forces were severely depleted.  The only way to field enough troops was to reassign newly freed prisoners of war – including those who had survived forced marches, starvation, and disease.

Men like Ted.

After dreaming of home for so long, he and thousands of others were given just six weeks’ leave before reassignment.  The message was clear: recover, eat well, and prepare for another fight.

The Red Cross and St John War Organisation sent every next of kin a leaflet advising how best to feed returning POWs.  Rather than overwhelming them with foods they hadn’t seen in years, such as ‘roast beef and Yorkshire, steak and kidney pudding, roast pork complete with a lively piece of crackling’[iv], families were urged to start with smaller, lighter meals.  Milky puddings, plenty of tea, and simple jam or raisin sandwiches[v] were recommended to help them acclimatise.  For the most part, men who had suffered years of starvation, regained weight quickly when following this careful regime.

Ted, like many others, was granted extra leave to recover his fitness.  His Royal Artillery Tracer Card reveals that he was on the Y-list for ‘non-effectives’ from 8^th May 1945 until he was reassigned to 205 Field Regiment on 2nd August 1945, then 88 Training Regiment three weeks later.    

But history had overtaken the Army’s plans. 

On 6th and 9th August, the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Within less than a month, the Imperial Japanese Army surrendered.  The deadliest war in human history was finally over, with an estimated 70–85 million dead, including millions of civilians^[vii]. 

For Britain, the end of the war brought a new challenge: what to do with the five million men and women in the armed forces, most of whom had been conscripted.  These were not career soldiers.  They had been “called up” to fight or undertake war work.  Now, they were no longer needed, and the government faced the enormous task of demobilising and reintegrating them into civilian life. 

The process began in October 1945, with soldiers released based on their length of service and their age.  Those with vital skills were given priority.  Ted, however, had to wait.  It wasn’t until 9th June 1946 that he was finally discharged from the Army^[viii]. 

This, perhaps, was the moment he had truly been waiting for – not just release from war, but the beginning of something new.  He was no longer a soldier.  He was, at last, a civilian again.

A difficult homecoming

For some, there was official support to help ease the transition.  The Army established Civilian Resettlement Units (CRUs) to help ex-POWs adapt, but many, like Ted, found themselves struggling to fit back into a world that had moved on without them.

He was able to return to his old job as an electrician at London Transport, but it was as if time had frozen for him while everything else had changed.  Britain was a country still reeling from six years of war, with shortages of food, clothing, and housing.

During his captivity, Ted had remained a serving soldier, meaning he received nearly five years’ worth of back pay from the Army.  It was a lump sum that should have set him up comfortably, but in post-war London, money could do little to ease his frustration or bring him happiness.  Alcohol was still rationed, and Ted – without even a bed of his own at his parents’ flat – spent much of his free time trawling local pubs, searching for scarce beer and a sense of normality.

It was during one of these “pub crawls” that he met Johnnie Butler[ix].  Johnnie was another ex-serviceman, though his war had been different. He had fought in Italy and suffered severe shell shock, something that haunted him for the rest of his life.

Johnnie later recalled that their first meeting was in October 1946, a time when pubs received just one barrel of beer per week.  Finding a drink meant moving from pub to pub, hoping to get lucky. “Out of around fifteen pubs, we might get four pints,” Johnnie said[x].

“I met him in The Sun at Barnes. He was sitting at the end of the bar drinking a pint.  My luck was in – this pub had beer, but only one pint per person.  I spoke to Ted (he was the only other man in the bar).  I asked him if he lived in Barnes, and he told me he lived in Fulham – only 50 yards from the house in which I was born – but we’d never met before that night.”[xi]

For the next eighteen months, Ted and Johnnie went out drinking together five or six nights a week, tracking down what little beer was available. One evening, they found themselves at The Crown in North End Road, Fulham. They managed to get a pint, but Ted’s eyes lingered on a bottle of Scotch whisky behind the bar. “I wish that was real,” he sighed[xii].

The barman surprised them.  It was real – the only bottle the pub had been allocated that week.  Without hesitation, Ted and Johnnie pooled their money and bought it, drinking the entire bottle one measure at a time.  They became spectacularly drunk but managed to conceal the bottle from the only other two men in the bar.

For Ted, the drinking was a way to fill the emptiness of his new reality. He had escaped captivity, but life was still a struggle.  Years of malnutrition and forced labour had left their mark – most noticeably the deafness in one ear after a camp guard fired a Luger pistol inches from his head, rupturing his eardrum.  He was back in his old job, sleeping on a sofa in his parents’ flat, and spending his nights trying to forget how lost he felt.

Finding solace in music

Then something changed.  Amid the haze of post-war drinking, he and Johnnie discovered they shared something beyond beer and war stories – a love of music. 

Ted had his guitar, Johnnie his accordion. They began playing together, bringing life to the quiet, half-empty pubs of Fulham.  Their unlikely duo lifted spirits – not just their own, but those of the men and women around them.  Despite the deafness in one ear, Ted’s musical instincts remained sharp.  Whether it was the jazz guitar of Django Reinhardt or the violin of Stéphane Grappelli, Ted found inspiration in their melodies, and, in a way, healing.

For both men, the pubs became more than just places to drink. They were where they could escape their pasts, where they could use their creativity to push away the memories of war and captivity.   The act of playing together, of filling the smoky rooms with music, became its own form of therapy.

But for all their similarities, their paths were not the same.  Sadly, Johnnie never fully recovered from his wartime trauma and, as Ted’s money dwindled, so did his options.

Then, just as his funds were running out, something changed.

Ted met Hilda.

She was a single mother with a toddler son, and their connection was immediate and intense.  Before long, he had moved in with her, the three of them sharing a tiny single room at the top of a house in Turneville Road, Fulham.  The war, the captivity, the disorientation of post-war life – it all faded in the face of this new beginning.

In October 1948, Ted and Hilda were married.

At last, he had found his way home.

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Afterword

Unlike after the First World War, no medals were automatically issued to British service personnel following the Second World War.  Instead, those who qualified for Campaign Stars and Medals had to apply for them, either in person or through their next of kin if they had died.  There was no specific medal awarded to prisoners of war, despite the immense hardships they endured.

Ted submitted his application for his medals in early 1949, just weeks before the birth of his and Hilda’s daughter.  His handwriting on the form – though instantly recognisable – appears unusually shaky, perhaps reflecting the toll of his wartime experiences.  It is also quite possible that he applied under pressure from Hilda, a forthright and determined woman, who may have insisted he claim the recognition he was due – if not for himself but for his family.

Years later, Johnnie Butler wrote a letter about his old friend[xv]. He had many memories of their time together, but one sentence stood above the rest:

“He was the finest, kindest man I ever had the privilege to meet.”

For a man who had endured so much, there could be no better tribute.

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