First Days, The (1939)

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Twenty years...

September 3rd, 1939.

London was at peace
on this Sunday morning.

'I am speaking to you

'from the Cabinet Room
at 10 Downing Street.

'This morning,
the British ambassador in Berlin

'handed the German government
a final note

'stating that unless we heard
from them by 11:00

'that they were prepared at once
to withdraw their troops from Poland,

'a state of w*r would exist between us.

'I have to tell you now that
no such undertaking has been received,

'and that consequently this country
is at w*r with Germany.

'This country is at w*r with Germany...

'This country is at w*r with Germany...

'But it is evil things that
we shall be fighting against.

'Brute force, bad faith,

'injustice, oppression
and persecution.

'And against them, I am certain
that the right will prevail.'

London is calling.

London calling to the world.

This is London. Here is London.

Calling to a world at w*r.

The air-raid alarm is sounded
in the first hour of w*r.

An unknown plane
approaches the coast.

Londoners enter the w*r shelters.

Protective balloons are sent up.

Well, Hitler didn't waste any time,
did he?

What's this, our rum rations?

Here you are, plenty of room.

The warden is on duty.

He is the link between the simple
citizen and the protective services.

His principal equipment
is friendliness.

Friendliness.

It has become the w*r-time equipment
of all Londoners.

Oh, thank you. It's terrible, isn't it?

- Isn't it quiet?
- We won't hear much, will we?

I hope old Hitler can hear
what I'm thinking.

People joked,
but in their hearts was devastation.

Twenty years of peace and
of building up had been overthrown.

The devastation of w*r claimed
even the blades of grass

that brightened the grey winters.

The long-forgotten earth of London
has seen the light after barren years.

It is put to barren use.

Sandbags, sandbags,

millions of sandbags.

Those rows of bags,
those earthworks,

are rising like a tide in our streets.

We want these to be
the last earthworks.

That is why filling sandbags
is everybody's business.

Men and women left everything
that they were doing

and hurried to shovel sand.

They ran to and fro like ants,
each with his tiny burden.

But the bags and the boarding
and the trenches

were but the external signs of a great
upheaval in London's inner life.

The hardening of London's face,
the growing ruggedness of the streets,

meant a warming of the heart
and a quickening of the sympathies.

The thousand classes of London,

some from their damp basements
and some from their luxury flats,

came to work for the public good.

In those first critical hours,
they did indispensable work

which no leader could have ordered
and no money could have bought.

They built bastions, dug trenches,

shaped the raw earth with their hands
to make the city safe.

At that moment,
Londoners saw a remarkable thing.

A generation of young men,
born in the last w*r,

and brought up
in contempt of militarism

and the bogus romance
of the b*ttlefield,

went into uniform willingly
and with clear understanding.

Because they found they had grown up
in a world where there was no peace.

These were London's children.

Now they carry arms.

But they're still our children.

The defence of London
is in young, firm hands.

But some Londoners must keep
their feet on the ground.

The Monday morning workers left
their tube trains to face a new world

where everything seemed strange.

But trade went on. They bought
covers for their gas masks.

The shining facades of the West End
put up barricades,

sometimes of paper and glue.

London's white w*r paint was to be
a guide on the darkest night...

...sometimes.

Even Scotland Yard's stout walls
were made stouter still.

While citizens turned into policemen
came out to man the streets.

The resources of the great city
were mobilised

to deal with fire and expl*si*n.

The aged and ill
from the hospitals of London

were taken to the country
to escape alarm.

Meanwhile, the children, too,
were leaving London.

Three quarters of a million children had
been moving out of the London region

during the weekend.

For this was a city of children.

London has many monuments
to the dead past,

but the real London is
its young life, its future.

London is the cradle of tomorrow.

And not just the slate and stone,

the bricks and mortar
of an ancient and toiling city.

The mothers stayed.

Steps don't get so dirty these days,
do they, Mrs Hawkes?

No, you're right.
But it gets dead quiet, doesn't it?

Funny it takes a w*r to give us
a bit of peace and quiet.

Some of the anonymous millions
did get into uniform.

For weeks, women had practised
driving ambulances.

Three thousand taxi drivers
became godfather to a fire pump,

At almost every corner,
a balloon was tethered.

Sometimes on London's waterway.

One side of a street might be
sunny and civilised,

the other like a road in France with
army convoys hiding under the trees.

In quiet backwaters of a civilian city,
its young men trained.

It was a time for saying goodbye.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

They have gone off, like the children.

But they have gone the other way.

Goodbye.

From the National Gallery the old
masters have gone into the country.

Here is the British Museum, hallowed
by the footsteps of many nations.

Scholars and students have
gone back to the busy world.

Under this roof, men have ceased
racking their brains,

and there is peace, even for dictators.

And here is a hanging.

Another gentleman
who is going to the country,

when they can get him off his pedestal.

The pigeons' friend is going,

but we have now a living c*ck
monument built by c*ck hands.

Any Londoner wandering
round the East End

would find the full picture
of a patient world.

Of adaptability and enterprise.

Of the plodding round of labour
in dangerous places.

Of deep-water docks in the biggest
sea port in the world.

Of the grooming of great ships.

These must be hidden from aggressors
as they sail on their lawful occasions

bringing the people's food.

Back in the West End
life is flowing by in the old channels.

Till we see a map in a window
with flags of hope pinned on Poland.

Warsaw, like London, was still
untouched in that first week of w*r.

The nations were waiting.

And in London, the men and women
of many nations were waiting

to register as foreigners.

100,000 people from other lands.

They're part of London,
part of its broad culture, its tolerance.

Some are without a homeland
when w*r comes passing by.

Many Londoners' pets were k*lled
to avoid air-raid suffering.

Others were evacuated.

Animals were labelled like children
and taken to the country.

For the women of London,
it was a revolution.

The children were in the country,

some of the men were in uniform.

Others,
the anonymous million in mufti,

kept alive the trade and industry
and arts of London.

So the women had to face a new life.

Above all, endurance
was the woman's inheritance.

But in the new trappings,
there was the old spirit.

♪ Wish me luck
as you wave me goodbye

♪ Cheerio, here I go, on my way

♪ Wish me luck
as you wave me goodbye

♪ With a cheer not a tear... ♪

♪ Mother dear, I'm writing you
from somewhere in France

♪ Hoping this finds you well

♪ Sergeant says I'm doing fine,
a soldier and a half!

♪ Here's the song that we'll all sing,
this will make you laugh

♪ We're gonna hang out the washing
on the Siegfried Line

♪ Have you any dirty washing,
mother dear? ♪

Night must fall.

And with night will come for many
a wakeful sleep.

On the darkest night, the gleaming river
may yet betray London.

There are faithful sentries overhead.

And from the ground, men watch.

Through the long hours,
the droning night patrol is heard

on a million pillows.

In the West End, the safety men
test the lights in empty theatres.

The playhouses of London are locked
for the first time

since the Puritans closed them
nearly 300 years ago.

But no one has ever stopped
the c*ck voice of London.

It is neither night nor day

when we find again
the plodding round of labour.

Night or day, it is always
the birthday of an aircraft.

And in the blackout, with the streets
in almost total darkness,

a city of shadows.

The hospital is awake, ready.

The hospital and the arsenal.

Only one beam can be seen
from the sky.

The beam that guides the gunner.

No g*ns spoke through the night,

and London, with relief,
turned to a new day.

For this is not twilight that
has come to England.

It is dawn.

And dawn, we hope,
for more than England.

And in the clear daylight
stands the London front,

the front of the anonymous million,

a civilian people whose name
has gone spinning across the world.

London. London calling.

And when you hear it, you know that
that front is still intact,

and that its ideals are still cherished.

You know that the grass is still growing
and babies are still being born.

And men still whistle at their work
in England.