Memories of Wales says Yes 1997

On 18 September 1997, the Welsh electorate narrowly voted ‘Yes’ on the question: “Do you agree that there should be a Welsh Assembly as proposed by the Government?” The turnout was 50.1%. The Yes majority was 6,721.

At the time, I was a student in Cardiff and very excited by the prospect of devolution.  It was a chance to recognise Welsh nationality and form a different kind of democracy after 18 years of Conservative government.  Like the election of Tony Blair earlier in the year, it seemed to offer a new beginning and I took the opportunity to speak to as many people as possible about it.

My overriding memory of the time, however, is the indifference of most people I knew. Some were clearly in the Yes camp, especially if they spoke Welsh and/or supported Plaid Cymru.  My friends who had voted Labour a few months before were far less enthusiastic. Indeed, many of those who were English seemed to regard the issue as nothing really to do with them.  Some actually stated it should be a decision for those who were Welsh rather than living in Wales.

Even amongst those who were Welsh, there was sometimes a sense that somehow this was a vote on whether Wales’s future should be in the UK. One friend from a Valleys town was distrustful of my arguments because she said I was too “into the Welsh thing”. Others seemed to feel it was too soon after the election of a new government to make such a decision. The Tories had been in power nearly all our lives and some people seemed to want to see how government by New Labour would pan out first.  Few such people probably voted ‘No’ but not many voted ‘Yes’ either.

There may have been little enthusiasm but there was also little active hostility. Only one person told me he was voting No because he wanted less government, not more.

Looking back, I can’t remember why I did not get involved in the Yes campaign. Perhaps I did not know how at a time when the internet was in its infancy. I did get a Yes poster from somewhere and put it up in the window. It was the only poster on our street.

Despite my numerous conversations, it never occurred to me that the Yes campaign might not win.  Just as during the EU referendum, I was assuming that common sense would win out, despite the conversations I was having with people who thought otherwise.  As results night progressed, and it looked like No would win, I got depressed, as much with my own misreading of the situation as with the situation itself.

When Carmarthen, the last county to declare, swung the result, I was ecstatic. I felt I should go onto the streets to celebrate this momentous occasion of national importance.  But I knew no one else would be there. I did open the door but it was raining.

Instead, I watched television pictures of a party somewhere. In the background, I noticed the woman who lived next door. I had never spoken to her and felt a moment of guilt about the lack of community on our street. I wondered why she had not put up a poster in her window.

The next day, no one seemed that excited. A friend who I had persuaded to vote Yes told me she had meant to but the rain had deterred her. I’d like to think the margin would have been better had the sun been out but that would another delusion.  1997 changed Wales forever but it did so on the back of little widespread enthusiasm.

Football and the First World War in South Wales

It is unimaginable that people could look on at a game of football and forget themselves in the ecstasy of a winning goal at the moment when their comrades, maybe brothers, are making gallant and stupendous efforts at the front, even sacrificing their lives for the life of the nation.

Letter to South Wales Daily News, 3 September 1914

In August 1914, war broke out in Europe, driving Britain into a patriotic frenzy. WVery quickly, all rugby matches in England and Wales were suspended to help the nation to concentrate on the push for victory.  There was no similar official suspension in junior and amateur soccer but, with so many players joining up, many competitions were abandoned anyway. By December 1914, 1,217 players affiliated to the South Wales and Monmouthshire FA had enlisted and nearly a hundred clubs had disbanded.  At the end of the season, there were just seventy affiliated clubs still active, 325 fewer than the previous year

The press looked to professional soccer’s authorities to follow rugby’s moral lead but, fearing financial losses and expecting it all to be over by Christmas, the FA and Football League decided to play on.  The FAW followed suit with its president claiming that to interfere with football would be nothing short of ‘panic legislation’.  He argued that soccer fulfilled a large place in the organized life of the nation and that its discontinuation would only produce undesirable results.  Although many professional players had already enlisted, and some of the smaller professional teams disbanded, those clubs that did play on faced a battle of their own.

The government and the War Office may have supported the continuation of professional soccer but elements of the public and press saw things rather differently. The first two months of war saw letters and editorials in south Wales and national newspapers denouncing the playing of soccer during a time of crisis.  It was felt that since footballers were fit young men looked up to by much of the public, they should be setting an example by enlisting.  Some critics believed that playing and watching the game were not necessarily wrong if the players and spectators were too young or too old to enlist.  They accepted that sport had a role in relieving public tension and anxiety. However, the more extreme antagonists felt that the whole concept of spectatorism was wrong in a time of war and the sight of thousands of young and able men enjoying themselves at matches during wartime sickened them.

5 Sep 1914

Celebrating rugby’s war contribution: Sporting News (Swansea), 5 September 1914.

19 September 1914

Celebrating rugby’s war contribution: Sporting News (Swansea), 19 September 1914.

The south Wales press printed lists and pictures of famous, and not so famous, rugby players who had joined up, thus indirectly criticising professional soccer.  The decision of Swansea Town’s directors to contest the military’s decision to requisition the Vetch Field was subtly criticised after one member of the board suggested that the War Office could have the ground if it took over the club’s liabilities.  The implication that the club and the game were putting their own finances before the nation’s needs was made clear by the press article then moving on to look at new recruits from the town’s rugby fraternity.

In an effort to make a stand against the continuation of soccer, the South Wales Argus announced that it would not report any football news for the duration of the war. The South Wales Daily News also chose not to print match reports in the first few weeks of the 1914-15 season but, as attendances showed that the public were still interested in professional soccer, the paper slowly increased the coverage it gave to the game.

Other papers also reversed their stance and made it clear that sport was acceptable during the war.

9 january 1915

Sporting News reports on Swansea Town v Blackburn Rovers in the FA Cup, 9 Jan. 1915

Despite the allegations that professional soccer was unpatriotic, the game was helping the war effort.  Grounds were made available to the military for drill or training at any time other than Saturday afternoons, most clubs gave their players rifle practice, and some even paid them in advance for the 1914-15 season to allow them to enlist.  On occasion, soldiers were let into matches half-price in an effort to show that the game was doing its bit, while spectators regularly found themselves the target of enlistment campaigns. The 7,000 spectators at a Welsh League match between Swansea Town and Llanelly in 1914, a third of whom were eligible for service according to a self-righteous reporter, were addressed by six different speakers, including the mayor and club chairman, on the virtues of enlistment.

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Recruitment advertisement from Swansea Town v Blackburn Rovers FA Cup match programme 1915 (Swans100 archive)

The immediate impact of such appeals was limited in south Wales.  The Times used the fact that only six recruits came forward after appeals at a Cardiff City match as an example of the selfishness of the game and its followers.  However, as the club pointed out, hundreds of its supporters had enlisted, while the majority of the rest were involved in the coal and rail industries, integral parts of the war effort.

Nationally, soccer gave the state easy access to large numbers of potential recruits from working-class communities and thus became an important vehicle in the recruitment campaign. The wartime hostility towards soccer in England was not widespread and actually represented the resentment of exponents of amateurism at the usurpation of the game by professionalism and the working classes.

In south Wales, antipathy towards soccer was even less common and given disproportionately large publicity by a patriotic press.

Restrictions on rail travel and a ban on mid-week games played havoc with fixture lists and soccer found it harder and harder, in both financial and practical terms, to continue.  In November 1914, the FA estimated that, on average, attendances had fallen by approximately fifty per cent.  Cardiff City’s average in the Southern League dropped from approximately 11,700 to around 9,300. Other clubs, like Mardy AFC of the Southern League, already operating on tight budgets, suffered critical declines in their gates and closed before 1914 was out. The soccer authorities’ restrictions on players’ wages caused further tensions within clubs.  Cardiff City players threatened to go on strike in 1915 over the issue of their benefits.

By the end of the 1914-15 season, it was clear that the war was going to be a long affair and the FA decided to suspend league and cup programmes.  Falling attendances and practical problems had achieved what the anti-soccer agitators could not. A new makeshift league involving Cardiff City, Newport County and teams from south-west England lasted just a season because of low gates and rail restrictions.  Cardiff City’s average attendance during the season was a meagre 1,700.

24 July 1915

Sporting News, 24 July 1915

1916 saw the introduction of conscription and the call up of most of the eligible professional players who had not enlisted voluntarily.  Junior leagues did continue throughout the war, offering light relief from the hardships of the home and overseas fronts, but professional clubs spent the rest of the war playing the occasional friendly with teams of amateurs and guest professionals. Without the regular income of popular matches, the expense of paying rent and ground maintenance proved difficult.  Cardiff City, Merthyr Town and Swansea Town survived the war but few other clubs were so fortunate.  Yet the real loss was the 35,000 to 40,000 Welshmen killed in the war, among them a host of amateur, professional and international players.

For those who returned, the war was a watershed in their personal lives.  Fred Keenor of Cardiff City served alongside other professional players in the 17th Middlesex (Footballers’) Battalion and a leg wound threatened to end his footballing career before it had really started.  In later years, he mostly refused to speak of his experiences on the Western Front.  As his son put it, ‘Dad blotted it out. He had lost too many friends. He often said that he was one of the lucky ones who came back’. On being demobbed, the ‘land fit for heroes’ was no more immediately apparent to Keenor than it was to most other returning soldiers.  He found work in a gasworks and on a milk round before rejoining Cardiff City when professional football resumed in 1919 amidst much excitement.

Adapated from Martin Johnes, Soccer and Society: South Wales, 1900-39 (University of Wales Press, 2002).

John Charles and Welsh football

An old article I wrote for Soccer History.

John Charles was one of a generation of immense talent to emerge from the schools of Swansea from the end of the 1930s to the early 1950s.  Most notably, Trevor Ford, Cliff Jones, Ivor and Len Allchurch, Jack Kelsey and John’s brother Mel all went on to become international stars. In the early 1950s Swansea schoolboys won the English schools shield three times. The guidance of local teachers did much to foster this culture of footballing excellence but another local institution, Swansea Town, never benefited from it in the way that it might have.

Charles was lost to his hometown club when Leeds United ‘stole’ him (and several others) from the Swansea Town groundstaff in 1948, after a scout had spotted him playing on a public park. Charles was yet to turn sixteen and was thus technically a free agent, despite an understanding that he and other boys on the groundstaff would sign professional terms for Swansea.  The FA subsequently changed the regulations on player registration to avoid any repetition.

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It was thus on the international rather than domestic stage that Charles contributed to Welsh football. He made his international debut in 1950 against Northern Ireland in the home championship.  As in club football, his international career was at both centre-half and centre-forward.  He helped give Wales an international profile in the game; the secretary of the Italian league remarked in 1961 that ‘Wales should give Charles a medal. He has put it on the map. Nobody in Italy knew where or who it was before’.  Charles won 38 caps for Wales, scoring 15 goals.  It would have been far more had Juventus been happy to release him every time he was called up.  Charles recalled, ‘If they [Juventus] were playing just before or just after an international I would have to stay behind.  It broke my heart.’

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After Wales qualified for the 1958 World Cup his manager and teammates were unclear about whether Charles would be able to participate or not. When the Welsh party left for Sweden Charles was not amongst them.  Juventus, with whom Charles had just won the Italian league, had finally agreed to release him but he was still waiting for clearance from the Italian Football Federation.  Charles himself had not thought that Wales would qualify and thus never thought a problem would arise. When he eventually made it to Sweden he was unexpected and arrived at an airport not knowing where the Welsh team were staying. Charles played in Wales’s three group matches, scoring once.  In the subsequent play off against Hungry he was kicked out of the match and injury prevented him turning out against Brazil in the quarterfinal. Without their star player, Wales lost 1-0 to a Pele goal.

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His desire to play regular international football contributed to his signing for Leeds United in 1961. After he quickly returned to Roma he insisted on a clause in his contract allowing him to play for Wales.  Charles finally played for a Welsh club when he joined Cardiff City from AS Roma in 1963.  By then he had lost some pace and played mostly in defence.

In 1966 he moved on to join Hereford United as player-manager before returning to Wales to become manager of Merthyr Town in 1971 and then becoming assistant manager at Swansea in 1973 after a brief spell in Canada. Charles stayed at Swansea for three years before moving to Leeds to run a pub.  He was never a success in management, be it in football or business; perhaps his temperament was too genial.  But this did not sully the memories of those who had met him or seen him play.  With his greatest playing achievements taking place on the continent in an age before widespread television coverage, Charles was never as revered in Wales or the UK as he was in Italy. Nonetheless, he surely remains the greatest footballer ever to emerge from this small nation.

Martin Johnes is the author of: Soccer and Society: South Wales, 1900-39 (University of Wales Press, 2002).

The Political Aftermath of the Aberfan Disaster

Martin Johnes and Iain McLean

On Friday, 21 October 1966 a coal tip slid down a mountainside into the mining village of Aberfan in the South Wales valleys.  The slide engulfed a farm, around twenty houses and part of the local junior school before coming to rest.  The disaster claimed the lives of 144 people, 116 of whom were school children.  The horror felt around the world was made all the more poignant as news emerged of previous slides and brushed aside warnings.  Such was the widespread sympathy that was felt that a fund set up to help the village raised £1,750,000.

Image result for aberfan disaster

A terrifying tale of bungling ineptitude

In the days after the disaster, Lord Robens, chairman of the National Coal Board (NCB), attributed the tragedy to ‘natural unknown springs’ beneath the tip.  This was known by all the local people to be incorrect.  The NCB had been tipping on top of springs that are shown on maps of the neighbourhood and in which village schoolboys had played.  The government immediately appointed a Tribunal of Inquiry.  Its report was unsparing:

Blame for the disaster rests upon the National Coal Board … The legal liability of the National Coal Board to pay compensation for the personal injuries (fatal or otherwise) and damage to property is incontestable and uncontested.

These dry conclusions belie the passion of the preceding text.  The Tribunal was appalled by the behaviour of the NCB and some of its employees, both before and after the disaster:

the Aberfan disaster is a terrifying tale of bungling ineptitude by many men charged with tasks for which they were totally unfitted, of failure to heed clear warnings, and of total lack of direction from above

Colliery engineers at all levels concentrated only on conditions underground.  In one of its most memorable phrases, the Report described them as ‘like moles being asked about the habits of birds’.

The Tribunal endorsed the comment of Desmond Ackner QC, counsel for the Aberfan Parents’ and Residents’ Association, that coal board witnesses had tried to give the impression that ‘the Board had no more blameworthy connection with this disaster than, say, the Gas Board’.  It devoted a section of its report to ‘the attitude’ of the NCB and of Robens and forthrightly condemned both.

Corporate responsibility

In the face of the report, it now seems surprising that nobody was prosecuted, dismissed, or demoted or even said sorry.

It  is also surprising that Robens’ offer to resign as NCB chairman, which even at the time was seen as perfunctory, was rejected.  Public records released under the thirty year rule, show that he had advance sight of the tribunal report and his private office ran a media campaign to keep himself in place.  Through very public attacks on government fuel policy, he was able to portray himself as a defender of the industry and win the support of the unions.  This was not a new line for him to take but Robens was a great PR manipulator and he knew that he was securing his position.  Ministers let him stay, despite disliking him, because they thought he was the only man who could manage the decline of the coal industry and avoid strike action.  In effect, Robens’ behaviour after Aberfan became irrelevant to whether he kept his job or not.  Rather, political expediency was the name of the game.

Nobody suggested that Robens himself was to blame for the disaster but he was the head of the organisation that clearly was.  The extent of mismanagement revealed by the Tribunal was such that the question of prosecution arose in Aberfan and the media.  However the NCB itself avoided prosecution because the concept of corporate manslaughter was very much on the fringes of legal procedures.  Mining was a dangerous industry where accidents were normalised as an almost inevitable part of operations.  This is not to say that they were taken lightly but rather that they were seen as just that, accidents.

Accidents might be the product of individuals’ errors maybe but the idea that those errors could be fostered by a wider corporate culture that amounted to criminal negligence was simply not part of the contemporary agenda.  When the question of manslaughter charges was raised it was with regard to individual employees not the NCB itself.  Concepts of corporate responsibility, in and outside the coal industry, were essentially under developed.  Thus, despite the evidence to the contrary, the Aberfan disaster did nothing to challenge the picture of disasters as tragic accidents rather than criminal negligence.

A catalogue of self-serving episodes

Other events that now seem surprising followed Aberfan.  In August 1968, the government forced the trustees of the disaster fund to contribute £150,000 to the cost of removing the remaining NCB tips from above the village.  These tips were in a place and condition in which, according to the NCB’s own technical literature, they should never have been. Yet the board refused to pay and even undermined the efforts of a rival firm offering to remove the tips for less money that the NCB thought it would cost.

The contribution was bitterly controversial.  Some people wrote to ministers to complain that it was inconsistent with the charitable objectives of the fund; ministers’ replies did not address the point.  The Charity Commission failed to intervene or even query the debatable point on whether such a contribution was legal.  In contrast, it asked the disaster fund to ensure that parents were ‘close’ to their children before making any payment to them for mental suffering.

The villagers of Aberfan were traumatised  beyond the comprehension of outsiders who could see only their ‘unpredictable emotions and reactions’.  The trustees of Bethania chapel, which was used as the mortuary after the disaster, pleaded with George Thomas, the Secretary of State for Wales, to get the NCB to pay for it to be demolished and rebuilt, on the grounds that its members could not longer bear to worship there.  Thomas passed the plea on to Lord Robens, who rejected it.  Eventually it was rebuilt but at the expense of the disaster fund not the NCB.

The NCB paid just £500-a-head compensation to the bereaved parents.  To some parents this was insultingly low. Coal board lawyers, however, regarded it as ‘a generous settlement’ and it was not at odds with other contemporary payments of loss of life by a child.  Even as insurers wrangled, the ruins of the school and empty houses remained for a year.

For those in Aberfan, the legacy of this catalogue of self-serving episodes was a deep feeling of being let down and injustice.  The result is a lingering mistrust of authority.  It has also made the closure process difficult and undoubtedly hindered the healing process in the local community.  Subsequent events served to exacerbate that feeling.  In October 1998 the village suffered severe flooding.  An independent inquiry showed that the flooding was exacerbated by dumped spoil from the removed tips.  One survivor of the disaster and victims of the flooding said ‘I was buried alive in that tip in the disaster.  Now it’s the same tip again dumped outside my door.  It’s no wonder I am angry.’

A community on the periphery

George Thomas, Secretary of State for Wales and originally a teacher from the Rhondda, did initially protest at the decision to encourage the disaster fund to contribute to the payment of the removal of the tips.  But his lone voice in the cabinet was not sufficient and in the end he acquiesced in the plan and placed strong moral pressure on the disaster fund to ensure it too gave in.

There was considerable local anger but the South Wales valleys consisted of safe Labour seats.  All the major Labour figures knew that the rising Plaid Cymru support in the valleys was essentially just a protest that would pass.  The Labour hegemony thus condemned Aberfan to the margins.  In contrast, Robens’ ability to avert a coal strike was very much the concern of government and he kept his job as chairman of the NCB.

Gwynfor Evans, leader of Plaid Cymru, complained in the parliamentary debate on the disaster that if the tips had been at Hampstead or Eton, the Government would have taken more notice.  Aberfan was a small working-class community isolated from the heart of UK politics.  The government’s decision to grant legal aid to the Aberfan Parents and Residents’ Association at the Tribunal of Inquiry did mean they were able to afford the best ‘silk’ of the day.  The fearsome Desmond Ackner triumphed over the NCB at the Tribunal.  But in the aftermath of the disaster, a Labour government, whose support across South Wales was secure, ignored Aberfan’s interests.

The disaster itself, of course, was not marginalised.  The London media, Royalty, and the Prime Minister all travelled to Aberfan to see the horror for themselves.  It was only a few hours drive away or an even shorter flight.  Even Lord Robens got there, 36 hours later.  Politicians were undoubtedly personally touched by the disaster.  Harold Wilson noted that when he visited a Cornish school less than eight days after the disaster, he felt ‘almost a sense of resentment at these happy innocent children, with all they had to look forward to, compared with the children of that Welsh valley, who had no future.’  Intensive media coverage, particularly television, ensured that the disaster was seen as a national one.

Yet this was not enough to overcome the residents of Aberfan’s position on the political periphery, something that had contributed to the causes of the disaster and intensified the injustices after it. The disaster simply would not have happened had the NCB taken local fears about the tips more seriously or enforced its own rules on tip safety. But it was an organization hampered by mismanagement yet protected from market and political pressure by being part of the state and a dominant local employer.

Before the disaster, the NCB’s economic and local political power meant no one, including the small local authority in Merthyr, was able to challenge it to do more about fears on tip safety. After the disaster, the NCB’s economic and national power meant its interests took precedent over those whose children it had killed.

Martin Johnes and Iain McLean are the authors of Aberfan: Government and Disasters (Welsh Academic Press, Cardiff, 2019). 

 

 

The creation of the Welsh Office…

It’s 50 years since the Welsh Office was created. Here’s an extract from my book Wales since 1939 that outlines the background behind its creation and the growth of Welsh administrative devolution.

Fears about the economic future in the late 1940s and early 1950s had also created demands within the Labour Party for some official recognition of distinct Welsh needs and a distinct Welsh identity.  In an acknowledgement that Wales did at least exist as an economic, administrative and cultural unit, a Council for Wales and Monmouthshire had been set up in 1949 as a non-elected advisory body to the government.  It came under the chairmanship of Huw T. Edwards, a Caernarfonshire trade unionist whose profile through the 1950s saw him dubbed the ‘unofficial prime minister of Wales’.  Looking back in 1958, a civil servant argued that the council had probably be intended as ‘relatively meaningless sop’ but Edwards’ personality had seen it gain a good deal of importance.  Through the 1950s the Council did keep up the pressure on the government to create a Welsh Office and Secretary of State, framing its demands more in terms of effective government than national recognition.  The Council was taken seriously by government but Edwards resigned in 1958 after it became apparent that it was not going introduce a Secretary of State. The government interpreted the Council’s demands as a desire for parity with Scotland but feared that should that be granted then Scotland might demand further devolution.  Given that Wales was operating under the same legal system, it foresaw that any Secretary of State would have to follow different policies to England in order not to make the position superfluous.  This, it feared, would be difficult to explain and would lead to inequalities that would be especially manifest in the Marches where social and economic ties crossed the border.  It also worried about the costs and administrative complexity of forming yet another department and feared controversy over the position of Monmouthshire, which it regarded as an English county but one that by tradition would have to be included in Welsh administration.

There was some popular support for devolving some powers from London.  In 1956 the Parliament for Wales campaign presented a petition with 240,652 signatures, representing some fourteen percent of the Welsh electorate.  Gwynfor Evans estimated that 80 percent of the people asked had signed it.  This was the culmination of a six-year campaign that had included leading figures from Labour, the Liberals and Plaid Cymru.  But it won no sympathy with the government or most of the press.  The Cardiff Labour MP George Thomas thought the Welsh people needed saving from themselves, while David Llewellyn, a Tory MP in the same city, even drew parallels between the campaign and Mein Kampf.  The lack of specificity in the campaign’s claims probably made it easier to collect signatures but the internal disagreements within the campaign over what Wales’ problems actually were and how a parliament would solve them undermined its political influence.  At the end of 1956, one of the leading figures in the campaign reflected ‘All the petition’s papers are now in cardboard boxes, one on top of each other, rotting through dampness’. The campaign did help raise the profile of Plaid Cymru and was another step towards the gradual construction of a proto-Welsh state but ultimately its failure marked a widespread satisfaction with the status quo.  This was clear when the South Wales area of the NUM voted against the campaign, fearing it would undermine the UK bargaining position of the union.

The Tryweryn revolt, the reports of the Council for Wales and the Parliament for Wales campaign may not have secured their immediate objectives but cumulatively they encouraged government to take specifically Welsh interests seriously.  In 1958, civil servants anticipated that Plaid Cymru could grow if Welsh feelings were ‘handled tactlessly’ and if there was a fusion between the party and elements within Labour that were ‘more Welsh than Socialist’.  The key to avoiding this, they felt, lay in persuading Wales that the government was taking its economic welfare seriously and dispelling the ‘widespread notion that people in England neither know nor care whether the Welsh and Welsh culture fare well or ill’.  Seven months earlier the Prime Minister had told his cabinet, “There is a general feeling among Welsh people that their particular interests are not receiving the attention which they should and we shall need to be specially careful and sympathetic in our handling of Welsh affairs at the present time if we are to prevent the Welsh Nationalist movement from gaining ground.”

In response to pressure from Welsh MPs for a Secretary for State for Wales, the Conservatives had already introduced a Minister of Welsh Affairs in 1951, a post held by an existing Cabinet member with a different portfolio.  Although the minister did not have a government department, the position did ensure someone within the Cabinet with a specific remit to look after and act on Welsh interests.  The first holder was the Home Secretary Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, a Scottish lawyer, who tried to defuse criticism that he was not Welsh by claiming that that one of his ancestors had led an army from Scotland which tried to join Owain Glyndwr.  He proved the worth of the post by shelving unpopular forestry and military plans for Welsh land. Although there were still the occasional controversy – such as the government’s 1960 appointment of a non-Welsh speaker as National Governor of the BBC in Wales – there were significant signs of increased sensitivity to Wales.  In 1958, a Festival of Wales was held under the government’s auspices. It culminated in the holding of the Commonwealth Games in Cardiff and the announcement by the Queen that Charles would be made Prince of Wales.  The introduction of county rather than national referenda on Sunday opening in 1961 was a concession for rural Wales, as was the main Mid Wales railway line’s survival of the Beeching cut. The government began giving financial support for the publishing of Welsh-language school books in 1954, and the 1959 Eisteddfod Act allowed local authorities to support financially the National Eisteddfod.  In 1958, a new steel development went to Llanwern rather than Scotland after anger in Wales that the Forth Bridge had been given priority over the Severn Bridge, despite the Minister for Welsh Affairs arguing the Severn’s case to combat the ‘wide and deep distrust of the Government’s attitude towards Wales’. Cardiff was made the official capital of Wales in 1955 and four years later government pressure on Buckingham Palace led to the Red Dragon being declared the official national flag.  These Conservative concessions were the result of external pressure on the party but they also show how the existence of a minister for Wales and then sensitivity over Tryweryn increased the influence of Welsh interests in government.

In contrast, internal pressure from Labour MPs, not least James Griffiths, led that party to finally commit itself to creating a Secretary of State for Wales, a promise which it honoured when it returned to power in 1964.  Not everyone in government was enamoured.  In his diary, Richard Crossman called the Welsh Office an ‘idiotic creation’ and ‘completely artificial’.  There was also some concern in the north that Wales’s voice in Cabinet would actually diminish because the post meant Welsh affairs would be treated separately after England had been looked at.  The Secretary of State would be ‘a lone voice, and one can only hope for the best’ one paper surmised.  But one immediate benefit was felt.  The new department took the importance of expanding the M4 far more seriously than the Ministry of Transport and plans were quickly put in place for a series of new sections that would open through the 1970s.

The full and referenced version of this text can be found in Martin Johnes, Wales since 1939 (Manchester University Press, 2012), available in paperback, hardback and on Kindle.

What next? Some back of the envelope thinking

It was nowhere near as close as many hoped or feared but 1.6m UK citizens still said they wanted out. The prime minister has reaffirmed his commitment to the vague devo-max promises made late in the day.  Fearing the rise of UKIP, his backbenchers insist that the ‘English question’ needs sorting too. Despite the uncertainties, constitutional change is coming.

Scotland will sort itself out I’m sure. The backlash would be too great if they did not get something acceptable to the Scottish government.  The Tory  backbenchers would no doubt like to see public spending in Scotland brought into line with England but the PM seems to have committed to the Barnett formula that allows higher Scottish spending, while oil revenues offer him a justification to defend that.

The problem with committing to Barnett is that it hurts Wales. Unlike Scotland, Wales gets more from the public purse than it pays in (maybe £12billion a year) but  if its block grant was funded on the same basis as Scotland it would get another £300m a year.  (I’m simplifying but that’s basically the case).

The UK government could of course just change the Barnett formula so Wales and Scotland were treated equitably. However, a greater ‘hand out’ to Wales will not go down well with the backbenchers or the English nationalist party that masquerades as UKIP. It might also mean less cash for Scotland. A future Labour UK government does appear to have promised some sort of Barnett reform  but the details are vague and, anyway, they’re not in power.

Cameron has to face up to solving the Barnett issue because without doing that he can’t deliver “English votes for English issues”. At the moment, the level of public spending in England helps determine the size of the Welsh and Scottish block grants. Thus any vote on, say, English education that involves a change to spending levels is not an England-only issue because it affects the Welsh and Scottish budgets.  Welsh and Scottish MPs will continue to be justified in voting on English issues for as long as Barnett continues.

Thus any constitutional reform of England has to first address how Wales and Scotland are funded.  But it is surely not impossible to come up with a new formula that calculates the Welsh and Scottish block grants based on an equitable assessment of their needs (i.e. the extent of deprivation there and the cost of delivering services).

Once you have a new formula there is nothing to stop a federal parliamentary system for the UK, the ‘home rule for all’ option. Here the Commons becomes the English Parliament and the parliaments of all four nations have fiscal and domestic responsibilities. The Lords, meanwhile, is replaced with a UK-wide new elected chamber that deals with defence and other UK-wide issues. England has a first minister. The UK has a prime minister. They might belong to different parties.

There might need to be some policy alignments between the nations or a retention of some UK-wide domestic issues.  For example, significantly different levels of unemployment benefit and state pensions could lead to some awkward population movements.  But you could leave welfare payments (except housing benefit which is ultimately a local issue) at a UK level.

Most importantly, a federal UK could only work if there was some form of wealth redistribution between the nations. This happens within the EU and would be the cost of retaining some form of political unity and collective safety. In essence what would happen is that Wales and Northern Ireland, using whatever replaced Barnett, would get a subsidy from England, plugging the hole in their finances. If they wanted to spend beyond that they would have to use their tax and borrowing powers.

UKIP would moan but surely would not be in an electoral position to do much about it now the England question is solved.  (The EU issue would still be there but I have enough faith in the English electorate to vote to stay in any European referendum .) Labour would lose some influence in England but not in the UK. They won’t like that but democracy means it is unfair for them to govern England unless they can get a majority there. The Tories would be happy because they  had saved the union, increased their influence in England and hurt UKIP.  National identity in the four nations would be recognized.

The biggest question mark would be whether the English electorate would accept the subsidy of Wales and Northern Ireland.  But that already exists and polls say they want to keep the union and believe in social justice. This is the cost.

I’m sure the devil is in the detail but I’ve put the same level of thought into this as the back of the envelope vows made by the UK parties just before the referendum.

A personal (and Welsh) view of the referendum

If Scotland votes Yes my wife would be entitled to a new passport. Although it’s two decades since she’s lived there, I suspect she’d take one and I would be married to a foreign citizen. A trip to see her family would still be a long way but would now involve crossing an international boundary.

In this small way my life would change but, less obviously and far more substantively, other things would happen too. The political system that governs my country and the resources at its disposal will change. In some indirect but important fashion this will influence my health care, my job, my commute and my kids’ education.

But I don’t know how things will change and whether they will for better or worse.  The UK economy might plummet at the hands of international monetary forces. But it probably won’t. Wales should get to renegotiate the Barnett formula that has underfunded its public services for more than three decades. But that will be the low on the priorities of a London government trying to figure out how to disentangle two nations that have been one state for more than 300 years.

Indeed, amidst the political fallout and bickering, it may be that Wales and its needs doesn’t get heard at all. It would be nice to think that the London government suddenly gave Wales and Northern Ireland more attention and more resources in order to keep us in the family but I suspect that won’t happen because too much of the English electorate doesn’t care about having us.

My gut instinct is that Scottish independence will leave Wales worse off but I don’t know that. Nor does anyone else and the certainty with which some Welsh nationalists are declaring a Yes vote will be good for us is no more than a hopeful guess.  It’s not that I fear the economy being damaged; it’s more I fear Welsh politicians spending the next two decades gazing at their constitutional navals rather than working at fixing the inequalities and poverty on their doorsteps.

That should leave me wanting a No vote but the speed with which the Westminster elite is starting to wake up to the consequences of its introspection and London-centricism is far too welcome to want it to go away. Indeed, it’s actually funny seeing panic setting in amongst politicians who have been too smug for their own and our good. A Yes vote would give them a kicking they would never be the same again after.

I suspect it’s such feelings that are driving the Scottish Yes vote forward. The arguments on the economics of it all are so complex and so uncertain that neither side can actually win that fight. As long as the No camp keep on patronising the Scots and insulting their sense of nationhood (“we’re too wee to stand alone…”) then people will keep switching to the Yes side. They know it’s an economic risk but there’s enough sense in the Yes arguments to make it worth taking, especially when it means sticking two fingers up to a political elite that hasn’t cared much for years what they think.

These are interesting times as the saying goes. They will become even more interesting if Scotland votes Yes. If they do, I hope it works out for them. I hope even more it works out for Wales. But I suspect what’s good for Scotland, won’t be good for us.

The Alarm: 1980s Wales in a Band


Alarm_kalvoya_01071984_10_500The Alarm sold 5 million records but they were never cool.  Even in the early 1980s, when they were singing punkish rebellion songs like 68 Guns, the band never won the critical acclaim of the music press.  Instead, they were derided as pretentious and inferior imitators of U2.  Even their big hair was mocked.

Perhaps it was just easier to be cool if you came from Dublin rather than Rhyl but even in Wales those who take their rock and pop music seriously have not accorded The Alarm much credit.  Books on Welsh music history overlook or deride them (although David Owens’ Cerys, Catatonia and The Rise Of Welsh Pop is a notable exception).  The contrasts with the feting and celebrations of the Manic Street Preachers could not be greater.

The Alarm released five studio albums between 1984 and 1991, although the name was revived by singer Mike Peters in 2000 and he continues to tour and record under it.  Peters’ health problems and his continuing musical and charitable work mean that the band continue to have some profile in Wales at least.  The derision that was sometimes aimed their way has faded but it has not been replaced with popular affection or admiration.

The Alarm, however, do deserve some recognition and even analysis.  Music does not have to be original or innovative to say something and touch people and the Alarm did both.  Their popularity alone means they deserve a mention in the contemporary history of Wales.  But more than that, The Alarm also offer a window into wider trends in that history, not just in what they did but also in how they ran against contemporary currents.

The band’s early albums captured the anger and frustrations felt by so many young people in a period of mass unemployment.  Most young people may not have been rioting or even been particularly politicized but there was a certainly a resentful sense that affluence and opportunity were not being equally shared out.  As The Alarm sang in Father to Son (1985) ‘How many years must I waste? Today I can’t find nothing nowhere. Tomorrow I might find something somewhere. Give me a future now. I need it so badly now.’

Much of the associated blame and anger was aimed was aimed at Mrs Thatcher, who became hated by many people in a way that no previous Prime Minister had.  The Alarm’s Marching On (1984) did not name her but its angry accusations seemed to be aimed at her and it demanded ‘You’d better look at what you have created and think of all the people who hate you’. This may not have been poetic or subtle but it did sum up how many felt.

Yet rock bands like The Alarm were a minority taste.  Far more popular in the 1980s were catchy pop songs that were an antidote to rather than comment on hard times.  One purveyor of such tunes was Shakin’ Stevens, one of Wales’ most successful modern musicians.  Although he came from a deprived Cardiff council estate, his most popular songs were ditties about love, a green door, and Christmas.  In this, he was more in tune with popular sentiment than The Alarm and others whose anger was politicized.  Indeed, overt faith in the political system was fading and being replaced by apathy and cynicism.

While some turned their backs on party politics, others began to weave a sense of nation into their political views.  This was significant because Welshness had largely been a matter of sentiment rather than politics in working-class urban Wales.  The changing attitudes were evident in the Welsh iconography of banners at the 1984-5 miners’ strike.  One social scientist claimed that Welshness was stepping into a void left by a fragmenting sense of class consciousness.

The_Alarm_Change_BackTheses shifting attitudes to Wales were evident in the output of The Alarm. In 1989, they moved away from their class-based lyrics and released Change, an album inspired by the lead singer’s new found sense of national identity.

Peters learnt Welsh and a version of the record was also released in that language, making it probably the first fully bilingual album.  Change brimmed with a sense of anger and frustration at the state of Wales: ‘I saw a land standing at a crossroads, I saw her wrath in a burned out home, saw her tears, in rivers running cold, her tragedy waiting to explode’ and ‘I see the proud black mountain, beneath an angry sun, under drowning valleys, our disappearing tongue, how many battles must we fight, before we start a war? How many wounds will open before the first blood falls?’

This open sense of Welshness did not help the band’s image outside Wales and their use of a male voice choir on the track New South Wales drew some mirth.  Even in Wales, it left the band vulnerable to accusations of clichés.  But to me, a teenager at the time, this was all heady stuff and it gave my sense of nationality a distinctly political twist.  I surely was not alone.

The Alarm still sounded indistinguishable from so much of western rock music, even with the new lyrics about Wales.  Yet that is no reason to dismiss them as part of Welsh culture. Understanding those facets of our culture that are shared with other nations is just as important as appreciating what marks us out as different. Besides, ultimately, there is little in Welsh popular culture that is unique to Wales.  When The Alarm sang about the pull of Merseyside, they spoke for the Welsh majority whose cultural inspirations and aspirations did not stop at the border.

Popular music is a powerful social force.  It can entertain, inspire and anger. But sometimes it’s nothing more than part of the humdrum of everyday life, something in the background, barely heard or noticed. The Alarm were all this.  Yet, whether they were singing about social trends or were just another tune on the radio, the band are a part of the story of modern Wales.

Martin Johnes teaches history at Swansea University and is the author of Wales since 1939.

Welshness, Welsh Soldiers and the Second World War

Welshness, Welsh Soldiers and the Second World War

Martin Johnes

This chapter was first published in Wendy Ugolini and Juliette Pattinson (eds), Fighting for Britain? Negotiating Identities in Britain during the Second World War (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2015), pp.65-88

On the heights of El Rhorab, looking out through the Fondouk gap, and on the rocky hill that stands over Hammam Lif facing blue distances across the sea, two marble stones were raised later bearing the names of those who fell in battle, with the Regimental crest and motto ‘Cymru am Byth.’ Rupert Brooke wrote that where he fell would be ‘for ever England.’ So to the 3rd Battalion the hill tops by Fondouk and Hamman Lif are marked as ‘Wales for ever.’

Maj. L. F. Ellis, Welsh Guards at War (1946)[1]

 The Second World War is often thought of as a time when Britishness peaked. Some historians have argued that propaganda, bombing, the threat of invasion, the shared sacrifices of serving in the forces and enduring rationing all created a common sense of purpose amongst the British people, bringing together its different nations and regions. That sense of solidarity also cut across gender and class lines in a war where everyone was ‘in it’ together.  This was a feeling that the state was only too keen to encourage and it helped ensure that the news and popular entertainment were dominated by the ‘shared national predicament’.[2] Such perspectives have also been adopted by Welsh historians. John Davies’ seminal history of Wales argues that the war ‘did much to strengthen Britishness. At the same time, it seemed to be a death blow to Welshness’.[3] Similarly, K. O. Morgan suggests that ‘Culturally the second world war seems largely to have passed the Welsh and Scots by. The quintessential images of the war, and of what the country felt it was defending, were essentially timeless English concepts.’[4]

There is little reason to doubt the argument that, just as the shared experience and fear of mass unemployment had sustained a powerful consciousness of class that cut across local, regional and national identities within inter-war Britain, the shared experience of war did much the same for a British identity. The Welsh people probably did feel more British during the Second World War than at any other time during their history. Moreover, war meant people in Wales travelled more, listened to the radio more and had more contact with the English; even the most remote Welsh villages gained inhabitants from elsewhere in Britain.  Psychologically and physically, the British nation came closer together. The war thus, as Morgan puts it, further integrated Wales into Britain.[5]

Yet the idea of a united Britain is not quite as straightforward as is often imagined and other historians have emphasised the disunity that also existed. Angus Calder, in particular, has questioned the extent of British national unity, arguing that beneath the propaganda were low morale and ongoing social conflict and inequalities.[6] Building on Calder’s work, Sonya Rose has emphasised the difficulties women, ethnic groups and colonial peoples had fitting into dominant ideas of British national identity. She also highlights the ongoing potency of Welsh and Scottish identities, arguing that ‘The very existence of these “regional” nations, and the continuing issue of national/cultural difference, suggested that “Britain” both historically and contemporaneously was less a nation and more an empire.’[7] Neither Rose nor Calder go as far as saying there was no British national unity or identity but they do demonstrate that there was no single notion of a British national identity that people united behind. Britishness was subject to different meanings and it was read and constructed differently by different regions, sexes, races and classes.

The plurality of British identity meant that a sense of Welshness was neither lost nor subsumed during this period of heightened Britishness. More contact with England made people more aware of not just what they had in common but also their differences, especially in the context of a war that was being fought over issues of national identity and self determination. With national identity being discussed in pubs, papers, pulpits and programmes on the radio, it is unsurprising that at least some of Wales reflected on what it meant to be Welsh. Central to this question was the sense of difference engendered by the popularity of Nonconformity and the Welsh language. Both, however, were in clear retreat and struggling against the influences of mass education, class-based politics, the wireless and cinema, and the economic and demographic upheavals brought first by inward migration from England before 1914 and then, between the wars, by outward migration to England. By the 1931 census, just 36.8 per cent of the population spoke Welsh and that figure was as low as 30.5 per cent in Glamorgan, by far the most populous county in Wales. The cultural and economic pull of both England and working-class consciousness did not, however, mean that Welsh people who could not speak Welsh did not feel Welsh, something only too evident in sport.[8] Thus what war did was sharpen Wales’ faltering sense of its own identity, particularly amongst those for whom it was generally a rather unfocused and diffuse feeling. Rose is quite right that the war activated expressions of cultural distinctiveness. Its challenges, its opportunities to debate what was being fought for, and the way it increased the role of the state and the state’s interest in what its people thought, all created a space for Wales to have a public profile. Moreover, she suggests, ‘It seemed almost as though the very efforts on the part of the Government to recognize Britain’s cultural heterogeneity in order not to antagonize those who felt themselves to be equally Welsh or Scottish and British fostered identity politics.’[9] This chapter explores how these themes played out for men who served in the armed forces. It embraces the argument that national identity during the war was a plural concept but it adds that this was as true of Wales as it was of Britain. Just as there was no single understanding of Britain, nor was there was a single understanding of Wales. Moreover, the Welsh could actually find it easier to embrace Britishness than the English because they had always had to balance and react to two nations, whereas for the English there had been traditionally little understanding of the nuances of nationality within the mainland of the United Kingdom.

Welshness and the war

The continuing power of Welsh identity during the war was only too evident in the names, traditions and insignia of Welsh regiments, all of which were examples of what social scientist Michael Billig called banal nationalism, the subconscious but influential flagging and reminder of the existence of the nation.[10] The Royal Welch Fusiliers’ emblem, for example, was a red dragon; it had choirs that sang Welsh hymns and a tradition where men ate a raw leek on St David’s Day (although shallots sometimes had to be substituted when the regiment was on active service aboard). Such was the power of these traditions that part of the regiment even wore leeks in their hats when fighting on St David’s Day 1945.[11] Their pride in Wales was further evident in a notice in The Times in memory of the soldiers of the 6th battalion killed in northwest Europe in 1944; it finished with the words ‘Cymru am Byth’ [Wales forever].[12] Welsh regiments also had a keen sense of history, despite the way that history could emphasise disunity between Wales and England. David Lloyd George addressed the Royal Welch Fusiliers’ 250th anniversary celebrations at Caernarfon castle in August 1939, claiming ‘It is a source of confidence to us that we know that this Regiment will once more face its responsibilities in a way which will be worthy of its glorious past and which will uphold that reputation for bravery which the Welsh people won in their age-long struggle for freedom.’[13] Similarly, the official history of the Welsh Guards, whose emblem was a leek, began by making connections between the regiment and Celts fighting the Romans and medieval Welsh princes fighting the Normans.[14]

The regiments were very proud of their identities and traditions and, like all parts of the army, promoted them to ensure men felt they belonged to a unit of consequence.[15] By St David’s Day 1943, part of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was in North Africa and its men celebrated with leeks, beer and a ‘Wales versus the Rest’ soccer match, in which one Sergeant-Major ‘carried an enormous leek with which he belaboured opponents foolish enough to come within reach’.[16] The needs of military operation however were complicating the identities of regional and national units by leading to relatively frequent reorganizations. When, in November 1938, the 5th (Flintshire) battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was converted into an anti-tank unit and made part of the Royal Artillery, there was some resentment and senior officers secured the right to continue wearing Royal Welch Fusiliers’ uniforms. The regiment’s official history claimed ‘These units and their offshoots, although part of the Royal Regiment of Artillery, and despite numerous drafts of replacements from every corner of the British Isles, clung tenaciously to the old Royal Welch traditions, customs, and memories.’ A merger with two other units from London regiments to create the 101st Light Anti-Aircraft and Anti-Regiment RA led to the Royal Artillery uniform being worn in the battalion but Welsh traditions continued and St David’s Day 1940 was celebrated ‘with, if possible, even greater fervour than usual’.[17]

Military needs and a growing policy of cross posting personnel to where they were needed also meant there was no guarantee that Welshmen would end up in Welsh units. The records (or indeed official definitions of Welshness) do not exist to know how often this happened but the issue was a matter of periodic public and private concern. For Glyn Ifans, a trainee teacher from Carmarthenshire, being in the RAF led to a feeling of being detached from his comrades and superiors and it fed his growing sense of political nationalism. With no units existing just for Welsh troops, he exclaimed ‘Are we a nation? Certainly the authorities running this war do not believe so’.[18] Great War veteran Sir Henry Morris Jones, a Liberal MP and chairman of the Welsh Parliamentary Party in 1941-2, was the leading voice of such concerns. Accusing the War Office of broken promises, he told the House of Commons in 1941: ‘Judging from my correspondence and the feeling expressed in the Principality there is a very distinct and a justifiable grievance that the War Office has not met them’ on the issue of keeping Welshmen in Welsh units.[19] Part of the blame for this was thought to be the issue of whether Welsh was used in recruitment processes and in 1940 a question was raised in Parliament about how many recruiting officers actually spoke Welsh.[20] In 1941, Wyn Griffith, a civil servant, broadcaster and former captain in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, noted:

That young Welshmen should join the armed forces is, of course, only right and proper. They have no wish to shelter behind the sacrifices of others, and they are proud of the fighting qualities of their race. They remember their fathers. All they ask is that they should be allowed to serve in Welsh units, as Welshmen. But this is denied to them, not out of malevolence, but out of sheer indifference: it does not seem important enough for any great trouble to be taken to contrive it.[21]

Whether it actually did so or not, the War Office always maintained that those who volunteered and expressed a desire to serve in a Welsh unit were posted to one where vacancies existed. It also claimed that territorial connections were taken into account in allocating conscripts but this was always subject to the vague proviso ‘where possible’. The government was not, however, willing to repeat what had happened in the Great War and form a separate Welsh division of the army.[22] Similarly, in 1943, a request from Sir Henry Morris-Jones that Welsh soldiers be allowed to wear a distinctive mark on their uniform was turned down by the Secretary of State for War because it would be too complicated to administer.[23] How many Welshmen were actually concerned about such issues is a different matter. The likes of Wyn Griffith were what might be called cultural nationalists, people deeply committed to the identity of Wales. In contrast, one Welsh-speaking Meirionnydd man, who found himself in the South Lancashire Regiment, wrote in his memoirs, ‘this did not really bother me: the army was the army, and it hardly made any difference which badge I was given’.[24] With comrades sharing the same experiences, hardships and routines, other Welsh speakers also described their wartime experience in terms that centralised a common bond with their English comrades over any sense of national difference.[25]

It was not just Welshmen who were being posted to English units; the reverse was happening too. In 1940, after hearing that some Welsh units drew as much as 40 per cent of their strength from outside Wales, a military correspondent at the Western Mail visited one unit with the permission of the War Office to investigate. He found a ‘mixed bag. B.A.s, M.A.s, bakers, butchers and candlestickmakers. Cambridge University men rubbed shoulders with miners in this democratic army.’ But the unit was 99.5 per cent Welsh.[26] Yet this was far from typical and there was a long history of Welsh regiments recruiting from England.  Between 1883 and 1900, just 28 per cent of men in Welsh regiments were from their regimental districts.[27] The recruitment patterns of the Great War intensified the locality of regiments but casualties and reorganizations still led to Welsh units drawing on men from across Britain.[28] Unable to rely on local or national identities to bond regiments, there was instead an emphasis on teaching men regimental traditions and using associated rituals to enhance a sense of togetherness and regimental loyalty. Thus what on the surface might appear to be national symbols were in practice driven more by the need to create personal relationships and a common bond between diverse sets of men. This does not mean that national pride played no role for soldiers who were Welsh in their personal sense of regimental identity but it did mean that Englishmen also partook in the first of March tradition of ‘eating the leek’.[29] Non-Welsh servicemen thus do appear to have been assimilated easily into Welsh regiments. This was made easier by the fact that the Welsh Guards were actually based in London. One of its sergeants recalled recruits from outside Wales were made to feel part of the regiment: ‘They are Welsh Guardsmen and once they joined us they were treated equally, the same as if they had been born and bred in Wales. They also learned that the family spirit is more binding in the Welsh Guards than in any other regiment … I think it’s just the way we are in Wales’.[30] But it happened in other regiments too. A man, who in 1939 was allocated to the 81st (Welsh) Field Regt RA, recalled ‘the Welsh boys were extremely friendly and gave us a genuine warm welcome, sharing their food parcels, mainly of Welsh cakes.’[31]

The experience of fighting together in combat tends to produce a powerful bond between men so the lack of influence of cultural differences should not be surprising.[32] An officer who served with the Welsh Guards argued that he had a very close relationship with his men from their time training together and that he knew many of them better than his own family. The pride in themselves and the fear they might let their comrades and friends down intensified that and led, in his opinion, to many of the acts of bravery. One of his sergeants similarly argued ‘We developed an obsession to help each other, sharing ourselves without expecting reward’.[33] Thus the war certainly developed a sense of group consciousness amongst troops in Welsh units but it was not necessarily based on the nation. This is further evidenced by the fact that battalions from Welsh regiments were put in the same brigades as battalions from English regiments without any problems. A history of the Welsh Guards noted, ‘No Welsh Guardsman who fought in the Second World War would like this account to close without special mention of the Leicestershire Yeomanry, the Lothian and Border Horde, the Ayrshire Yeomanry, or the Light Aid Detachment from REME, which gave such unstinted backing to the 2nd Battalion.’[34] Of course, this does not mean there were not tensions and army morale reports suggested that the cross posting of men and officers across units detracted from the development of an esprit de corps.[35] Yet, on the whole, the sense of unity within and between units that had fought together was strong.

This was not down to the experience of combat alone. Most of a serviceman’s time was not spent in the frontline and the dominant experience was preparing for war rather than fighting. Indeed, perhaps only a fifth to a quarter of the army actually directly experienced combat during the war.[36] As Jeremy Crang has summed up, for most soldiers ‘the experience of war was not one of daring deeds at the sharp end, but rather of a sedentary existence in camps and depots across the country polishing their brasses and wondering why they were there.’[37] The hardships, sacrifices and monotonies of military service pulled men from different parts of Britain together. One Welsh Guardsman thus recalled that the talk in the military huts ranged from:

sex to the absolute bloody awful life of the British Soldier and then inevitably to the schemes for ‘working your ticket’, i.e. being thrown out as unfit for duty. Schemes like holding the little finger of the right hand just over the barrel of a 2″ mortar and getting it blown off were discussed and discarded, the impact might blow the lot off, and in any case, the loss of a little finger was considered too trivial, there were many cases of soldiers with three fingers. Threatening the Sergeant Major with a bayonet, and many similar enterprises were all discarded. Surprisingly all this talk did no harm at all to the general moral[e] and discipline. Quite the opposite in fact, it kept the dream alive to beat the system, now that would be something![38]

When people were thinking along such lines, rather than serving first and foremost from a strong sense of patriotism or ideology, it is unsurprising that different backgrounds and understandings of nationality could be easily assimilated. Indeed, many soldiers were acutely aware that their sense of individuality was actually being eroded by their experiences of military life.[39]

However, the boredom and discomforts of camp life also gave opportunities for pre-existing tensions and cultural tensions to fester, especially when mixed with alcohol and the nerves and tensions of battles been or forthcoming.[40] Raymond Williams, the son of a Welsh railway worker and an officer in the Guards Armoured Division, never felt comfortable with the English officers that he mixed with in the mess, although that probably owed more to class than nationality.[41] Others objected to being referred to as the ‘bloody Welsh’.[42] Those from strict Nonconformist backgrounds could feel uneasy with the drinking and swearing of their comrades. Even when the powerful bonds that existed between comrades did transcend any differences arising from different cultural backgrounds, individuals’ Welshness or personal beliefs were not completely subsumed beneath a wider Britishness and loyalty to one’s comrades. Servicemen and women for whom English was a second language were hardly going to forget they were Welsh. But for English-monoglot Welshmen and women too, being surrounded by people from other parts of the UK, probably for the first time in their lives, could make them more aware of their own Welshness and the diversity of Britain.  A Welsh member of the Women’s Royal Naval Service recalled: ‘I don’t think I’d ever heard of a Scouse person or a Geordie until I joined up. Then, suddenly, all these different accents all around you. A lot of people didn’t know my accent. I’d be asked what part of Scotland I came from. Or Ireland – was I north or south?’[43] The unfamiliarity of the accent of one nurse from west Wales, together with her white cap and long uniform, even made some men regaining consciousness after anaesthetic think she was an angel.[44] Whether others initially knew the accent or not, many men and women spent their war being known by everyone as Taff or Taffy, making their nationality central to who they were, even if this did not make for a distinct Welsh experience of military service. One result was that when Welshmen outside Welsh units met they often quickly felt something in common, regardless of where in Wales they were from.[45] The autobiography of a Welsh-speaking Royal Engineer from Caernarfonshire records that the small crew from Wales in his unit would come together to swap news. Such encounters were a link back to home but they also reinforced differences within Wales too, reminding those from the north in particular that not everyone spoke Welsh. This Royal Engineer found he was called Taff by everyone except men from south Wales who called him Ianto, an archetypal Welsh-language name.[46]

With around a third of the Welsh population able to speak Welsh, it was unsurprising that the language was spoken and, by and large, tolerated in the forces. In October 1939, a Welsh-speaking censor was posted to the British Expeditionary Force to deal with soldiers’ writing home in Welsh and in May 1940 it was reported to the House of Commons that there had only been one known case of a letter being returned to a soldier because it was written in Welsh.[47] Welsh was included in BBC broadcasts to the forces and the secretary of the National Eisteddfod organised Cofion Cymru (Memories of Wales), a newsletter with stories, poems and the like, which was distributed with official support to Welsh speakers in the forces between 1941 and 1946.[48] In Cairo, another Welsh-language paper was set up, Seren y Dwyrain (The Star of the East). The toleration of Welsh was further evidence of how the state was aware that while all the men were fighting for Britain, their conception of what Britain actually was could be very different. Welsh had practical uses too. The Western Mail told readers in 1945 that Welsh had been used to ‘deceive the Germans on the Western Front and confound the Japanese in the swamps and jungle of Burma’.[49] There was some truth to such claims. In 1943, for example, the Royal Welch Fusiliers were able to re-establish contact with a company that had been cut off during fighting in Burma by asking them in Welsh over loudspeakers to fire rifles to indicate their position and strength. During the ensuing battle, further orders were given in Welsh over the loudspeakers. This lesson led to it becoming standard practice in the regiment that one wireless operator in every company be Welsh speaking.[50] Such actions could be rather confusing for the enemy. After the Welsh Guards used Welsh in radio communications at Cassino in 1944, the Germans responded twenty four hours later with propaganda leaflets in Urdu.[51] There were other occasional military advantages to Welshness too. One battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers spent some of the war stationed in Northern Ireland and the regiment’s official history claimed that it was probable that the Welsh nationality of soldiers had helped keep the peace amidst tensions on the border and poor relations with the police.[52]

Yet the British authorities could also be rather perplexed or just indifferent to the needs of Welsh-speaking soldiers. In November 1939, the government was worrying that Welsh might be used to leak information to Germany via Eire.[53] In 1941, the Minister of Information was asked in Parliament why a telephone conversation in Welsh between a parent in north Wales and his soldier son in Northern Ireland had been prohibited by the Liverpool Telephone Exchange.[54] Such cases owed much to misunderstandings and were never the result of official policy but they happened repeatedly and added to the sense that Wales was not being treated fairly. In 1942, a deputation of Welsh MPs saw the Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs to complain of a general failure to recognise that Wales was a distinct nation. Amongst the issues raised was the placing of Welsh men and women in Welsh units, especially when they did not speak English, and the issue of being allowed to write home in Welsh. Attlee recommended to Cabinet that ‘care should be taken’ to see that Welsh men and women were posted to Welsh units and that ‘Unless security grounds render it undesirable, they should be allowed to send and receive letters in the Welsh language’.[55] Cabinet agreed that it ‘was desirable to avoid action which might foster the growth of an extreme Welsh Nationalist movement’ but it was pointed out that ‘the Ministry of Labour and National Service and the Fighting Services went to great trouble to ensure that Welsh-speaking men were posted to Welsh-speaking units’. A reminder was sent to all departments on the need to recognise Welsh nationality.[56] The greater importance given to placing Welsh-speaking soldiers in Welsh units than was attached to where English-monoglot Welsh soldiers was sent owed much to the practicalities of censoring Welsh letters in English units. A Royal Engineer in Egypt found himself summoned before one of his officers and asked to write home in English because the difficulties in censoring his letters was causing delays in getting them sent. Because he saw the officer as a gentleman who had taken the time to explain the situation to him, the soldier agreed, although he noted it felt repugnant to write to his parents in English. He did continue to write the occasional letter or passage in Welsh and sometimes they would be crossed out.[57] He was not the only one to find it strange but still accept the situation with the resignation that characterized so much of military life. Meurig Evans, of the 31st East Africa Infantry Brigade, recalled that it was ‘strange’ to write to his parents in English ‘but that’s how it was’.[58] In contrast, one RAF serviceman felt insulted when a Welsh-language telegram he sent to his parents was returned to him. For him, this was part of a wider process of politicization and alienation caused by his feeling that his nationality was not recognized.[59]

Yet not everyone was able to write or even speak English. The 1931 census reported that there were 97,932 Welsh monoglots, 8,831 of whom were males between the ages of 10 and 24.[60] It is thus unlikely that there were no Welsh monoglots in the armed forces. The census did not define language ability and it was up to people to classify themselves. Compulsory education meant there cannot have been people of service age who were completely unversed in English but if they recorded themselves as Welsh monoglots their English skills must have been very rudimentary and many others who returned themselves as bilingual may also have had relatively limited commands of English. There are no records of any official discussion of the implications of this but this does not mean there were not problems. In 1955, the Council for Wales and Monmouthshire set up a committee to investigate whether Welshmen faced any special problems in their national service. It found that the army’s personnel dossiers did not record Welsh-language ability and that recruits were told that Welsh should not be recorded in the section on foreign languages spoken. It also found that Welsh-monoglot recruits and those with a poor command of English suffered in the intelligence tests. This affected where they were posted and it may be that in the Second World War too those with poor skills in English found themselves sent to service units where the emphasis was on manual labour.[61]

These interactions between the Welsh and British authorities were thus creating a situation where some people at least contemplated their place in the world and the meaning and relevance of where they came from. In 1943, one soldier wrote in a journal entitled Wales:

This is a time when members of the fighting generation everywhere should be expressing themselves and their opinions strongly – without cynicism – and nowhere more forcibly than in our small green oblong country. For the war has made the Welsh realise that they are a nation with a country, a people, a culture and a tradition different from England’s to fight for. There is a new wave of national feeling about among our people. There is, in truth, a Welsh renaissance.[62]

Another even suggested that the experiences of Welshmen in military service would lead to a growth in Welsh nationalism.[63] Nor was it just Welsh soldiers who were becoming more conscious of Welsh identity. Back home too, that intensifying awareness of Welsh difference was beginning to be felt through greater contact with people from other parts of the UK. As in the forces, this simultaneously led to a sense of a common interest and difference. The isolation that had kept Welsh strong in the west and north was being eroded, not just physically but psychologically too, as more people took an interest in global affairs and listened to the wireless.[64] Some 110,000 children were evacuated to Wales and they were received with both a sense of horror at their different manners and hygiene but also love and care.[65] Children were not the only ones arriving, as government departments and even the BBC’s Variety Department were moved to the safety of Wales. National Geographic Magazine thought that children, government officials and civil servants had ‘taken possession of Wales’. Its correspondent was told by one man that Wales had become ‘little old England’s refuge room’.[66] It is unlikely that they followed the example of some evacuees and learnt Welsh, but it was impossible to live in rural Wales without being aware that Welsh was a genuine community language. Indeed, even in the industrialized valleys, American GIs could become aware enough of the differences between Wales and England to write home about it.[67] Some civilians went the other way too, especially conscripted young women who were sent to factories wherever in Britain needed their labour.

Quite how all this interaction played out was no doubt an individualized experience that varied by personality and outlook; but there were certainly some tensions. Mass Observation reported that there was frequent resentment of the Welsh, the Irish and other foreigners in English towns.[68] Another Mass Observation report recorded being told that the Welsh were rather ‘peculiar’, while someone else reported that he saw the Welsh as a different race.[69] Similarly, there was resentment amongst nationalists about the influx of English people into Wales, not so much at an individual level but in terms of their collective impact on what was already a fragile traditional Welsh-speaking culture.[70] W. J. Gruffydd, a professor of Celtic languages and the Liberal MP for the University of Wales, remarked that ‘England can win the war and Wales can lose’.[71] The requisition of land by the military was the strongest cause of nationalist concern, because for many the landscape was an embodiment of the Welsh nation. This was evident in the powerful verses of Pembrokeshire poet Waldo Williams that bemoaned the loss of community land to the cause of the British state’s war.[72]

But nationalists also resented the loss of people to the war and parts of the nationalist party Plaid Cymru complained that the ‘English government’ did not have the right to conscript Welshmen.[73] Not many shared this concern though. There were 2,920 registered conscientious objectors in Wales, a proportion significantly higher than in any other part of Britain but one which owed more to religion than nationalism or politics. A 1940 Mass Observation report thought that Welsh nationalism was too marginal and its members too old to have much impact on conscientious objector numbers. It noted that there were only six cases where conscientious objection was based on Welsh nationalism alone. The English Appellate Tribunal did recognize Welsh nationalism as grounds for conscientious objection.  While tribunals in England followed this ruling, the two tribunals that covered Wales refused to allow nationalism as a sole basis for conscientious objection, arguing that the objection had to be to military service rather than the issue of the governance of Wales. Thus nationalists who did not cite pacifism or religion could be imprisoned for refusing conscription, although Caernarfon magistrates preferred to fine them. But such cases were few and far between. Over the course of the war, perhaps as few as two dozen members of Plaid Cymru ended up in court for making political objections to conscription.[74]

In 1945 one Welsh writer complained of Plaid Cymru:

This was the party that saw more peril to Wales from English evacuee children than from Hitler’s hordes. They were ‘neutral’ in the greatest war for human freedom. They, a handful of fanatics, presumed to speak for Wales from their safe jobs and safe hide-holes when 250,000 Welshmen were risking their lives to resist the greatest military despotism the world has ever seen.[75]

In fact, many Welsh nationalists were deeply hostile to Nazism and members of Plaid Cymru did serve in the armed forces.[76] Although conscription limited their options, not all nationalists resisted enlistment and some believed that the war was ultimately a just cause. In this, they reflected a much broader feeling amongst their compatriots. People may have joined up with a strong sense of resignation rather than British patriotism but there was a widespread acceptance that war was inevitable and that ultimately the British cause was morally sound, even if a clear ideological commitment to it was often rather lacking.[77] One Welsh writer, who gave speeches in favour of the war effort, noted in his 1946 autobiography of his officer son and others like him:

These were free men ready to defend our freedom. They had not been driven or bamboozled into the uniforms they were wearing, or hypnotized into a state in which they did not know what they were doing. They knew they were fighting for something really worthwhile, whilst well aware that Britain had been no garden of paradise between the wars. The main thing was that they still had minds of their own.[78]

That was rather a romantic view of military service that belied how the conscript’s existence was dominated by getting by but it indicated a feeling that could be found if military researchers dug deep enough and in this there is no evidence that Wales was any different to anywhere else in Britain. People may have been conscious at some level or other that Wales was different to England but that did not mean that they did not also feel part of Britain and its war effort.

Two interwoven nations

It was because people served with minds of their own that Welshness and Britishness were interwoven in the minds and experiences of both military personnel and civilians. These twin national identities were clearly evident in the Western Mail’s celebrations of VE day. At one level, the newspaper celebrated how the British had contributed something very real to the future of the world, telling its readers that they had served a ‘humane and righteous cause’. But it also published a page looking proudly at what the Welsh had contributed to the victory at home and abroad.[79] To readers of the article, it was evident that the Welsh had fought, worked and died for a greater cause, and many had sung while doing it. That same month Megan Lloyd George told an Anglesey eisteddfod that the Welshmen who had fought were ‘worthy successors of the [medieval] heroes of Wales, such as Llewelyn and Owain Glyndwr, and others who fought not only for the independence of Wales, but of nations as well.’[80] In the aftermath of the war, even the London press occasionally celebrated Welshness. The Daily Mirror, for example, proudly told the story of POWs in Thailand, who, each week, held a meeting of a Welsh society, singing hymns and the Welsh national anthem. Some of them, it claimed, died singing.[81]

There was nothing surprising in any of this; war or no war, the Welsh were a people that belonged to two nations. Yet which took precedence was something that varied significantly. There was not even any straightforward link between language and the balance that individuals struck. There were Welsh speakers who were content to see their Britishness predominate, and there were English monoglots who clearly saw themselves as Welsh before British. Rose is thus right when she uses Wales to illustrate that while the British did pull together, they did not agree on what Britain meant.[82] But it also has to be remembered that there was no singular definition or understanding of Wales either. The war did not change the fact that what Welshness meant remained as problematic as ever. For a relatively small number of nationalists, it was about defending Welsh-language culture through some kind of self-government. For parts of the labour movement, it was about preventing a return to economic catastrophe through stronger Welsh representation in London government. For probably many more, it was just a simple pride in where they were from, something that was only enflamed when ignored or not recognized.

The government was aware of that and made efforts to ensure Welsh nationality was recognized. This extended beyond how it treated Welsh soldiers to passing legislation giving people the right to speak Welsh in court, to reminding the BBC to not say England when it meant Britain, and to pushing for propaganda that displayed the plurality of Britain, even if the results could actually annoy Welsh listeners who felt a narrow and overly traditional image of Wales was being portrayed.[83] The state even advertised in Welsh-language papers hostile to the war. This did not mean there were not tensions and the odd civil servant or military official who did not understand or recognise Welsh difference.[84] But it is not unreasonable to conclude that there was a greater sensitivity to Welsh identity in London government during the Second World War than there had been at any previous time.

If anything, the government worried too much about Wales. Nationalists were in a minority, not all were against the war, and there was nothing to suggest that their numbers might grow significantly. The Germans had tried to exploit the sense of Welsh national identity but got nowhere. In April 1940, for example, Wales was given special prominence in Nazi propaganda broadcasts which claimed that the Welsh were as different from the English as the Poles or Czechs were from the Germans. ‘Anyone who has heard 80,000 Welshmen singing “Land of My Fathers” knows what a spirit these people have. Will that spirit be broken in grinding poverty, or will it burst forth in revolt?’ one broadcast asked.[85] Yet there was nothing to suggest that the Welsh as a whole were not as behind the war effort as any other part of Britain, even if they had their own understandings of what Britain meant.  Indeed, the Welsh might even have a stronger sense of British identity than the English. A 1941 Mass Observation report claimed ‘Britain is felt to be somehow symbolic and rather impersonal, whereas England (or whichever other country the person lives in) is more personal, intimate. … [A]n astonishing number of people, irrespective of education and politics, talk about Britain as if it were a unit of four countries, the one in which they live and three others, all foreigners.’[86] Their research was concentrated in England and there was actually little to suggest that there was the same remoteness from Britain in Wales, whether amongst civilians or soldiers. The state might be remote but that was not the same as the British nation. Most memoirs by Welsh servicemen do not make any sustained reference to their sense of Welshness, while civilians could also happily speak of themselves as British. This was perhaps because to the Welsh the difference between Britain and Wales were much clearer than the differences between England and Britain were to the English. The Welsh, or at least those that listened to the radio or worked in the cosmopolitan communities of the south, were used to thinking of the complexities of their nationality and their position within a multinational state.[87] Before the war, the English, in contrast, tended to simply conflate the two. Thus while the war certainly reinforced a sense of Welshness amongst the Welsh, this was just a case of building on what was already there. It was perhaps the English that had a bigger task in facing up to the existence of Wales and the plurality of Britain.

Yet the fact that nationality is not a pervasive theme in the memoirs of so many soldiers from all parts of the United Kingdom is because, for the majority, the experience of military service, like all everyday existences, was not, by and large, a reflective one. Military service could be dangerous and frightening, adventurous and exciting, tedious and monotonous, enlightening and educational. Patriotism or ideology rarely had much to do with everyday service, even when it came to what led men to fight, kill and die.[88] Thus while at an abstract level people may have been fighting for Britain and Wales, whatever they might mean by those terms, those abstract concepts actually had little impact on their everyday existence, an existence dominated by making do and survival. The world of the Welsh soldier was thus not Wales or Britain but their immediate unit, their mates, comrades, superiors and subordinates.

[1] Maj. L. F. Ellis, Welsh Guards at War (Aldershot: Gale & Polden, 1946), 36.

[2] Richard Weight, Patriots: National Identity in Britain 1940-2000 (London: Pan, 2003); John Baxendale, ‘“You and I – All of Us Ordinary People”: Renegotiating “Britishness” in Wartime’, in Nick Hayes & Jeff Hill, eds, ‘Millions like Us’? British Culture in the Second World War (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), 295-322. On the role of cinema in this, see Jeffrey Richards, ‘National Identity in British Wartime Films’, in Philip M. Taylor, ed., Britain and the Cinema in the Second World War (London: Macmillan, 1988).

[3] John Davies, A History of Wales (London: Penguin, 1993), 602. The Second World War in Wales awaits its definitive history but for an overview see Martin Johnes, Wales since 1939 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012), ch. 1. For Welsh-language responses to the war see Gerwyn Wiliams, Tir Newydd: Agweddau at Llenyddiaeth Gymraeg a’r Ail Rhyfel Byd (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2005). For commemoration of the war see Angela Gaffney, ‘“The Second Armageddon”: Remembering the Second World War in Wales’, in Matthew Cragoe and Chris Williams eds, Wales and War: Society, Politics and Religion in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2007), 184-203. On munitions workers see Mari A. Williams, A Forgotten Army: The Female Munitions Workers of South Wales, 1939-45 (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2002).

[4] K. O. Morgan, ‘England, Britain and the Audit of war’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, sixth series, VII, (1997), 151.

[5] Morgan, ‘England, Britain and the Audit of war’, 150-1.

[6] Angus Calder, The Myth of the Blitz (London: Pimlico, 1991); Angus Calder, The People’s War, 1939-45 (London: Jonathan Cape, 1969).

[7] Sonya O. Rose, Which People’s War? National Identity and Citizenship in Wartime Britain, 1939-45 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 238. Also on the gendered nature of national identity see Lucy Noakes, War and the British: Gender, Memory and National Identity (London: I. B. Tauris, 1998).

[8] On sport and nationhood before the war see Martin Johnes, Soccer and Society: South Wales, 1900-39 (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2002). On the wider relationship between class and nation see Chris. Williams, ‘The Dilemmas of Nation and Class in Wales, 1914-1945’, in Duncan Tanner, Chris Williams, W. P. Griffith and Andrew Edwards, eds., Debating Nationhood and Government in Britain, 1885-1945: Perspectives from the ‘Four Nations’ (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006), 146-68.

[9] Rose, Which People’s War?, 231, 286.

[10] Michael Billig, Banal Nationalism (London: Sage, 1995).

[11] Lt-Com. P. K. Kemp and John Graves, The Red Dragon: The Story of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, 1919-45 (Aldershot: Gale and Polden, 1960), 46-7, 258.

[12] The Times, 1 August 1945.

[13] Quoted in Kemp and Graves, Red Dragon, 9.

[14] John Retallack, The Welsh Guards (London: Frederick Warne, 1981), xi.

[15] David French, Raising Churchill’s Army: The British Army and the War Against Germany, 1919-1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 124.

[16] Kemp and Graves, Red Dragon, 287.

[17] Kemp and Graves, Red Dragon, 279-81.

[18] Glyn Ifans, Coron ar Fotwm (Denbigh: Gee and Sons, 1960). Quoted in translation in Gerwyn Wiliams, ‘Continental excursions’, Planet, 129 (1998), 85.

[19] HC Deb 18 March 1941 vol 370, cc84, 93-5, 108-9. Also see HC Deb 23 January 1940 vol 356 cc360-1.

[20] The answer was one out of the nine recruiting officers in Wales. HC Deb 12 November 1940 vol 365 cc1606-7W.

[21] Wyn Griffith, Word from Wales (London: George Allen Unwin, 1941), 33.

[22] HL Deb 14 August 1940 vol 117 cc237-8.

[23] HC Deb, 19 January 1943 vol 386 c19.

[24] Selyf Roberts, Tocyn Dwyffordd (1984). Quoted in translation in Williams, ‘Continental Excursions’, p.87.

[25] For example, Caradog Prichard, Rwyf Innau’n Filwr Bychan (Dinbych: Llyfrau Pawb, 1943).

[26] Western Mail, 23 December 1940.

[27] David French, Military Identities: The Regimental System, the British Army, and the British People c.1870-2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 46.

[28] For a discussion of this and an attempt to quantify the trends see Chris Williams, ‘Taffs in the trenches: Welsh National Identity and Military Service, 1914-1918’, in Chris Williams and Matthew Cragoe, eds, Wales and War: Society, Politics and Religion in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2007), 126-64.

[29] Kemp and Graves, Red Dragon, 305, 334.

[30] Trevor Royle, Anatomy of a Regiment: Ceremony and Soldiering in the Welsh Guards (London: Penguin, 1990), 87.

[31] Patrick Delaforce, Red Crown and Dragon: 53rd Welsh Division in North-West Europe, 1944-45 (Stroud: Amberley, 2009), 10.

[32] As Keegan notes, the esteem of comrades was an important motivation in combat. John Keegan ‘Towards a Theory of Combat Motivation’, in Paul Addison and Angus Calder, eds, Time to Kill: The Soldier’s Experience of War in the West (London: Pimlico, 1997), 3-11. Reading the citations of VC winners, it is hard not to think that these men were reckless in their concern for personal safety and willing to sacrifice themselves for their comrades. W. Alister Williams, The VCs of Wales and the Welsh Regiments (Wrexham: Bridge Books, 1984).

[33] That sense of belonging continued after the war too. A Welsh Guards NCO injured at Normandy in 1944 recalled with pride the importance of wearing the regimental tie after the war: ‘You’re never alone when you wear this. You can be anywhere in the world and soon as they see it someone will talk to you.’ Royle, Anatomy of a Regiment, 90, 92.

[34] Retallack, Welsh Guards, 151.

[35] Morale report, February-May 1942, p. 10. National Archives (hereafter NA): WO 163/51.

[36] John Ellis, World War II: The Sharp End (London: Windrow and Greene, 1990), 157-8. There are, of course, issues of how experience of combat is defined.

[37] J. A. Crang, ‘The British Soldier on the Home Front: Army Morale Reports, 1940-45’, in Paul Addison and Angus Calder (eds), Time to Kill: The Soldier’s Experience of War in the West (London: Pimlico, 1997), 60-74, 60.

[38] A. R. Lewis, Working His Ticket, online at http://www.proprose.co.uk  Accessed: 23 June 2014.

[39] Ellis, World War II, 14.

[40] Ellis, World War II, 327-8.

[41] Dai Smith, Raymond Williams: A Warrior’s Tale (Cardigan: Parthian, 2008), 161.

[42] Wiliams, Tir Newydd, p. 7.

[43] Quoted in Phil Carradice, Wales at War (Llandysul: Gomer, 2003), 98.

[44] Lleisau Ail Rhyfel Byd: 1939, Episode 1, S4C (16 September 2012).

[45] For memories of such encounters amongst POWs see Sydney Pritchard, Life in the Welsh Guards, 1939-46 (Talybont: Y Lolfa, 2007), 50, 63.

[46] Ifan G. Morris, Atgofion Hen Filwr (Caernarfon: Wasg y Bwthyn, 2005), 73, 63.

[47] HC Deb 28 May 1940 vol 361 c397.

[48] Wiliams, Tir Newydd, 27-33.

[49] Western Mail, 9 May 1945.

[50] Kemp and Graves, The Red Dragon, 51-53, 54.

[51] Morris, Atgofion, 126; Ellis, Welsh Guards at War, 144.

[52] Kemp and Graves, Red Dragon, 160.

[53] Confidential annex by Minister without portfolio, 2 November 1939.  NA: CAB/65/4/2.

[54] HC Deb, 18 December 1941 vol 376 c2067.

[55] ‘Welsh representation’. Memorandum by the Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs, 15 March 1942. NA: CAB 66/23/3.

[56] Cabinet minutes, 16 March 1942.  NA: CAB/65/25/34.

[57] Morris, Atgofion Hen Filwr, 95.

[58] Lleisau Ail Rhyfel Byd: 1939, Episode 1, S4C (Broadcast: 16 September 2012).

[59] Wiliams, ‘Continental Excursions’, 85.

[60] Digest of Welsh Historical Statistics, table 1.18. Data refers to people aged 3+.

[61] The Council for Wales and Monmouthshire, Third Memorandum by the Council on its Activities 1956-57 Cmnd. 53 (London: HMSO, 1957), 118-30. The report recommended against sending those with poor commands of English to such units.

[62] Keidrych Rhys, ‘Editorial’, Wales, 3, 1 (July 1943), 4.

[63] N. Hughes, ‘Effaith galwad i’r caci’, in J. E. Jones, ed., Llais y Cymry yn Lluoedd Lloegr: Dyfyniadau o’u Llythyrau (Caernarfon: Plaid Cymru, 1944), 3. The membership of Plaid Cymru did grow from 3,750 to 6,050 over the course of the war. Wiliams, Tir Newydd, 37.

[64] Between 1939 and 1945, the number of radio licenses in Wales increased from 406,000 to 490,000. John Davies, Broadcasting and the BBC in Wales (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2004), 138-9.

[65] Some of these evacuees came from other parts of Wales. For an overview of their reception see Johnes, Wales since 1939, 14-6.

[66] Isobel Wylie Hutchinson, ‘Wales in Wartime’, National Geographic Magazine, 85/6 (1944), 751-68.

[67] See the reproduced letter in Bryan Morse, A Moment in History: The Story of the American Army in the Rhondda in 1944 (Llandysul: Y Lolfa, 2001), 94-5.

[68] ‘Public opinion and the refugee’, Mass Observation file report 332 (August 1940).

[69] ‘What Britain means to me’, Mass Observation file report 904 (October 1941).

[70] For contemporary concerns about evacuation see R. I. Aaron, ‘A Modern Dispersion’, University of Wales Guild of Graduates: The Guild Annual 1940 (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1940), 2-6.

[71] Quoted in translation in J. Graham Jones, ‘The attitude of the political parties towards the Welsh language’, in Geraint H. Jenkins and Mari Williams, eds, ‘Let’s Do Our Best for the Ancient Tongue’: The Welsh Language in the Twentieth Century (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2000), 262.

[72] For a discussion of these poems see Robert Rhys, ‘Poetry 1939-1970’, in Dafydd Johnston, ed., A Guide to Welsh Literature (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1998), 89-116.

[73] See, for example, the 1939 editions of Welsh Nationalist.

[74] K. O. Morgan, ‘Peace Movements in Wales, 1899-1945’, Welsh History Review, 10/4 (1981), 398-43; ‘Conscientious Objectors’, Mass Observation file report 312 (June 1940); A. O. H. Jarman, ‘Plaid Cymru in the Second World War’, Planet, 48 (1979), 21-30. For the recollections of nationalist objectors see John Griffith Williams, Maes Mihangel (Dinbych: Gwasg Gee 1974).

[75] Western Mail, 21 April 1945.

[76] Jarman, ‘Plaid Cymru’, 24.

[77] On the lack of ideological commitment see French, Raising Churchill’s Army, 126 and Ellis, World War II, ch. 8.

[78] Jack Jones, Me and Mine: Further Chapters in the Autobiography of Jack Jones (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1946), 124-5.

[79] Western Mail, 8 May 1945.

[80] Caernarvon and Denbigh Herald and North Wales Observer, 11 and 25 May 1945.

[81] Daily Mirror, 13 September 1945.

[82] Rose, Which People’s War?, 290, 286.

[83] On the 1942 Welsh Courts Act see J. Graham Jones, ‘The National Petition on the Legal Status of the Welsh Language, 1938-1942’, Welsh History Review, 18/1 (1996), 92-124. For a wider view of official responses to Welsh identity in the war see Johnes, Wales since 1939, ch. 1. For resentment of Welsh clichés see Rose, Which People’s War?, 221. On the BBC see Davies, Broadcasting and the BBC, ch. 3.

[84] There were periodic concerns, for example, that Wales was not properly represented on bodies such as the Ministry of Information. See Western Mail, 21 December 1940.

[85] Analysis of German propaganda, April 1-15, 1940. NA: CAB/68/6/8. For memories of a Welsh Guardsman POW who the Germans tried to entice into doing radio propaganda broadcasts by appealing to his Welshness, see Pritchard, Life in the Welsh Guards, 30-1.

[86] ‘What Britain means to me’, Mass Observation file report 904 (October 1941).

[87] For a wider consideration of British in Wales see Martin Johnes, ‘Wales, History and Britishness’, Welsh History Review, 25/4 (2011), 596-61.

[88] French notes that the lack of personal commitment to the war did not mean a lack of morale or combat effectiveness. French, Raising Churchill’s Army, 134.

Sport in the Heritage of Wales

A short piece I wrote for Cadw, the Welsh Government’s historic environment service

Sport is a central part of the history and heritage of Wales. It has played an important role in the lives of individuals, communities and the nation.  Indeed, in a country lacking the more conventional markers and apparatus of nationhood, it could be argued that sport is one of the reasons why a strong sense of Welshness has survived in the modern era.

For many individuals sport was an important part of the routine of their lives.  It offered a physical and emotional escape from the drudgery and harsh realities of work and urban life.  Whether through watching rugby at the local stadium, playing football in a park, racing pigeons from an allotment or even just talking over the latest betting odds, sport offered people excitement, companionship and physical and intellectual stimulation. It also accorded people a sense of self-worth and importance, whether through their reputation as performers or through their ability to pass judgement on the performances of others.  Such rewards and pleasures could make life more tolerable and more meaningful.  They embedded sport in people’s routines and made it more than something people just did.

The importance individuals accorded sport combined to make sport a significant part of community life too.  Sporting grounds and facilities were important parts of local landscapes, places where people came together, turning collections of individuals into communities.  Locals assembled there, often in their thousands or even tens of thousands.  Even pub and park games could attract large crowds, as people came in search of free entertainment and to watch their friends and families represent their neighbourhoods.  Being part of those crowds enabled people to assert their local and civic pride.  Moreover, the larger sports grounds helped define the towns in which they stood.  They hosted clubs named after those towns and were known far beyond the immediate communities.  They were as much a civic space and physical symbol of those communities as any town hall, church or pub.

The strength and diversity of these communities contributed to Wales and Welshness having a plethora of different meanings.  Yet, however, Wales was defined, it would be difficult to deny sport’s place in the inventing, maintaining and projecting of the idea of a Welsh national identity in and outside of Wales’s blurred borders, even if the Wales that sport has projected has varied according to time, place and context.  Although the Welsh language, music and Nonconformity have also played their part, few other cultural forms are as well equipped as sport to express national identity.  Its emotions, national colours, emblems, songs and contests all make it a perfect vehicle through which collective ideas of nationhood can be expressed.  Rugby and football internationals in particular have mobilizedWales’s collective identities and passions.  They gloss over the different meanings that the people of  Wales attach to their nationality, enabling them to assert their Welshness in the face of internal division and the political, social and cultural shadow of England.  This put national sporting grounds at the heart of the nation.

Sport needs places to be played and its sites, ranging from national stadiums to pub bowling alleys, are part of the historic environment.  Many may not be unique or architecturally impressive but they mattered to the people who used and lived around them. Some have helped define the nation itself. All are part of our collective heritage.