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John Maryon as bus driver -
at Wilson's Corner, Brentwood |
The
Political Conversion of John Maryon – Part 5. Post War
By
John Maryon, at the request of his sister.
[Copied with the permission of his son, Tim Maryon.]
So
I returned from this to my home in Billericay, to find my father was out of his
farm, it having been sold over his head, with vacant possession. In fact he had notice to terminate his year
lease soon after the farm had become a shambles from German aircraft and
attendant crowds the year previously. I
was home in time for the farm sale and there I met pre-war acquaintances, men
who, although fit and of military age, never felt the urge to defend King and
Country, or if they did, they lay down until the urge went. Some of them acknowledged me, but had little
interest in my experiences. They had
come with eyes open wide for a bargain.
In fact, horror stories from the front were becoming boring. The farm had been bought by a Billericay
horse dealer, farmer and corn, hay and horse buyer for the government. This latter was most lucrative of them all,
for there was considerable scope for fiddling.
He interpreted his new overlordship harshly, and when my father asked
for certain justifiable compensations, he was threatened with farm
dilapidations. My father, wherever he
resided, always planted a few fruit trees, and grafted apples and roses, and he
was seldom in a place long enough to get any fruit. He had planted perhaps a dozen apple and pear
trees when he first took the farm, which the new owner promised to pay for, if
they were left. He received nothing.
He
went off to live in a house vacated – for the duration of the war – by my
uncle, and I went back to the war, where I served until the eventual armistice.
There is little doubt that my experiences at Ypres, together with the reduction
of my father, or anything to come back to after the war had a deep effect on
me, together with the callous attitude to the returning soldier, by both
government and populace. The difference
is the promise of grand reward, if it went – two packets of cigarettes weekly
which was quickly forgotten – in my case, and the mean interpretation by the
medical authorities toward disabled soldiers.
I
was demobilised in Jan 1919, with a bounty of 14 Pounds, and from this I had
money deducted for the loss of army clothing.
The woollen socks we were issued with, shrunk through being on my feet
immersed in water for days, and to get one pair off my feet, I had slit my
socks down the front. I paid! I purchased a civilian outfit ready made, and
of imperfect fit for 10 Pounds. This
left me very near bankruptcy. In March,
my father got a job with a man who was a wool broker, and farmed a small area
of land as a hobby. He bought this to
avoid army service. In spite of being
described as a farmer, it cost him 100 Pounds in bribes to a Hornchurch
builder, who was on the tribunal. I
learned afterwards that he cleared 20,000 Pounds on the London wool exchange
during the war. He would speak of
farming with contempt, and spoke about making 1,000 Pounds at the stroke of a
pen. I was lousy for at least two years
of my army service – on 1/- per day.
‘Tis true we were fed and clothed – thank you for the food and
clothing. They also caught us on the
rate of exchange – paying us in what were known as army francs, at the rate of
five a week. It would be interesting to
know the cost of printing these.
Our
woolbroker was a pig to work for, and I soon rejoined the army (but not in the
infantry). There were about 2 million
ex-servicemen on the dole, and It was pointed out to those lucky enough to have
a job – how lucky they were. So I served
in the Mechanical Transport R.A.M.C. for a couple of years, and came home again
and worked for a heavy-haulage firm. My
instinct from early life was to eschew any form of trade unionism of the
joining of sick clubs. My father always
said, “Be your own trade union”. Well, I
was sacked from this transport firm, mainly because the foreman disliked me
because, having heard I was applying for work as a driver on the London buses,
he said, “You can now have the time to seek a job at your leisure”. I got the job, and after a month’s tuition and
pass out by the London police, I became a busman. The bus company informed all new recruits
that, although a man could please himself, they preferred him to belong to the
appropriate union. My previous foreman
and other factors prepared my mind to join my fellow workers to protect our
interests in the union. But I only
became a card member at 9d per week. I
never attended any meetings until after the General Strike of 1926. The strike generally, the unscrupulous
propaganda against the strikers, of which I was one, the shameful settlement by
phoney leaders, leaving the miners on their own, brought me to political
consciousness. Before this time I
loathed all politics – but voted Conservative.
By 1928, I was a member of the Labour Party, and enthusiastic. After the betrayal of this party by its
leaders, at the great depression, I abandoned all support of any of the
political parties and became a devotee for the abolition of the system, which
has one small section owning the means of production and distribution, and the
majority having only their brain-power to sell for a wage. This set-up produces the terrible crisis and
war, associated with the present economic situation, which is known as
Capitalism. Whenever I was on strike, I
felt I was in combat with the men who profited by the war while we, the in
general dispossessed, struggled, fought and suffered to protect the status quo,
which persecuted and exploited us both in peace and war. Millions of contemporary young Europeans took
the same road for the communal ownership of the means of production and the
ending of the wages system, the accumulation of great wealth in the hands of
the minority – in fact capitalism – and it started with me in Flanders mud and
will end in the crematorium.
JM
