We... our war began September the 3rd 1939, with the invasion of

Hear now the solemn remembrance of Peter Shaffer, who spoke of a time when the earth itself trembled beneath the march of armies: “We... our war began September the 3rd 1939, with the invasion of Poland by Germany, and thereafter the great state of danger in England at that time, with the bombings, necessitated the evacuation of children.” These words echo not as cold history, but as living memory, the cry of a generation thrust into the furnace of World War II. They remind us that war does not wound only soldiers upon the battlefield—it tears also at the hearts of the innocent, scattering the laughter of children into the winds of fear.

The invasion of Poland on that fateful September day was the spark that set the world ablaze. From it arose alliances and declarations, and the drums of war rolled across Europe. For England, the shadow of danger loomed quickly, as bombs soon rained upon cities, tearing open the skies and shattering the peace of homes. The enemy’s purpose was not only to destroy armies, but to break the spirit of a people, to sow terror in the very hearth of families. Thus, the war entered not only the fields of battle, but also the cradles of children.

It was then that Britain undertook one of the most sorrowful and heroic acts of the age: the evacuation of children from cities into the countryside. Mothers wept as they placed their sons and daughters upon trains, not knowing if or when they would see them again. The sound of steam and wheels was mingled with cries and farewells, for love demanded separation to preserve life. The government called it Operation Pied Piper, yet to those who lived it, it was no fairytale—only the harsh wisdom that children must be kept safe, even if it meant breaking the family’s embrace.

Consider the story of one such child, a boy named William, who was sent from London to a small village in Devon. At first he wept each night, longing for his mother’s arms and the familiar streets of home. Yet in time, he came to know the kindness of strangers, to find refuge in the green hills, and to grow strong despite his sorrow. His mother, meanwhile, endured the bombing of the Blitz, clinging to hope with every letter that reached her hands. Their tale, repeated thousands of times, shows both the cruelty of war and the resilience of love.

The meaning of Shaffer’s words is thus: that war does not merely clash steel against steel, but rends the bonds of family and forces upon the young a burden they should never have to bear. The evacuation of children is both a testament to the dangers of that era and to the fierce determination of a people to preserve the next generation, even at the cost of their own hearts’ comfort. In this we see that true courage is not only found on the battlefield, but also in the quiet sacrifices of parents and children who endure separation for the sake of survival.

The lesson is clear and eternal: when danger rises, it is not enough to defend walls and borders—one must safeguard the innocent, the vulnerable, the future itself. To neglect them is to lose the very purpose of defense. And in our own day, though bombs may not fall from the skies above, there are storms of poverty, injustice, and despair that threaten children still. To protect them, to nurture them, is as vital now as it was then.

Therefore, let us act with vigilance and compassion. Let us create homes, schools, and communities where children need not flee, where they may laugh without fear, and where their growth is guarded as the most sacred treasure. Let every act of policy, every decision of power, ask first: how does this serve the young? For the truest victory in any age is not the conquest of enemies, but the survival and flourishing of children. Thus Shaffer’s memory becomes our charge, and his sorrow becomes our warning: guard the little ones, for in them the future of the world is carried.