Edwin (‘Ted’) George Albert Mayhew (Army No 945507) was born on 8th May 1919 in Fulham. Pre-war, after serving an apprenticeship he was employed by London Transport as an Electrical Engineer, and at the age of 20 years he enlisted in the Royal Artillery on 20th October 1939 as part of the Territorial Army expansion under the emergency Armed Forces Services Act.
Ted Mayhew was a Gunner in 367 Battery and was involved in the fighting at Cassel.
Captivity
Gunner Mayhew was captured at Watou on 30th May 1940 and transferred to Stalag VIIIB Lamsdorf on 16th June 1940. In September 1940, he and my father L/Bdr Eric West (with whom it appears he shared the entire war with) were sent to the E72 coal mining work camp at Beuthen (now Bytom in Poland).
Ted Mayhew was a talented musician and played in the camp band which would entertain the German officers on a Saturday night. He features in two photographs taken at E72, holding his guitar.
Ted Mayhew at E72 Arbeitskommando holding guitar in centre
The full E72 Orchestra
Long March
In January 1945, Ted Mayhew was evacuated from E72, with my father Eric West, and endured the entire length of the Long March before liberation in Bavaria on 8th May 1945.
Post War
Ted Mayhew returned to work as an Electrical Engineer at London Transport, who had kept his job open and awarded him five years back pay. He died in 1982 in Ashford, Kent at the age of 63 years.
with thanks to Natalie Mayhew- her more detailed account is available here: https://funnywherelifetakesyou.org/category/paternal-family-stories/mayhew/edwin-george-albert-ted-mayhew-1919-1982/
I’ve taken the liberty of quoting Natalie’s account of her uncles return to civilian life here:
‘A soldiers return- the long road back’
‘…For some, there was official support to help ease the transition. The Army established Civilian Resettlement Units (CRUs) to help ex-POWs adapt, but many, like Ted, found themselves struggling to fit back into a world that had moved on without them. He was able to return to his old job as an electrician at London Transport, but it was as if time had frozen for him while everything else had changed. Britain was a country still reeling from six years of war, with shortages of food, clothing, and housing.
During his captivity, Ted had remained a serving soldier, meaning he received nearly five years’ worth of back pay from the Army. It was a lump sum that should have set him up comfortably, but in post-war London, money could do little to ease his frustration or bring him happiness. Alcohol was still rationed, and Ted – without even a bed of his own at his parents’ flat – spent much of his free time trawling local pubs, searching for scarce beer and a sense of normality.
It was during one of these “pub crawls” that he met Johnnie Butler, another ex-serviceman, though his war had been different. He had fought in Italy and suffered severe PTSD that haunted him for the rest of his life. Johnnie later recalled that their first meeting was in October 1946, a time when pubs received just one barrel of beer per week. Finding a drink meant moving from pub to pub, hoping to get lucky. “Out of around fifteen pubs, we might get four pints,” Johnnie said. “I met him in The Sun at Barnes. He was sitting at the end of the bar drinking a pint. My luck was in – this pub had beer, but only one pint per person. I spoke to Ted (he was the only other man in the bar). I asked him if he lived in Barnes, and he told me he lived in Fulham – only 50 yards from the house in which I was born – but we’d never met before that night.”
For the next eighteen months, Ted and Johnnie went out drinking together five or six nights a week, tracking down what little beer was available……For Ted, the drinking was a way to fill the emptiness of his new reality. He had escaped captivity, but life was still a struggle. Years of malnutrition and forced labour had left their mark – most noticeably the deafness in one ear after a camp guard fired a Luger pistol inches from his head, rupturing his eardrum. He was back in his old job, sleeping on a sofa in his parents’ flat, and spending his nights trying to forget how lost he felt.
For both men, the pubs became more than just places to drink. They were where they could escape their pasts, where they could use their creativity to push away the memories of war and captivity. The act of playing music together, of filling the smoky rooms with their music, became its own form of therapy. But for all their similarities, their paths were not the same. Sadly, Johnnie never fully recovered from his wartime trauma and, as Ted’s money dwindled, so did his options.
Then, just as his funds were running out, something changed. Ted met Hilda, a single mother with a toddler son, and their connection was immediate and intense. Before long, he had moved in with her, the three of them sharing a tiny single room at the top of a house in Turneville Road, Fulham. The war, the captivity, the disorientation of post-war life – it all faded in the face of this new beginning. In October 1948, Ted and Hilda were married. At last, he had found his way home.
Afterword
Unlike after the First World War, no medals were automatically issued to British service personnel following the Second World War. Instead, those who qualified for Campaign Stars and Medals had to apply for them, either in person or through their next of kin if they had died. There was no specific medal awarded to prisoners of war, despite the immense hardships they endured.
Ted submitted his application for his medals in early 1949, just weeks before the birth of his and Hilda’s daughter. His handwriting on the form – though instantly recognisable – appears unusually shaky, perhaps reflecting the toll of his wartime experiences. It is also quite possible that he applied under pressure from Hilda, a forthright and determined woman, who may have insisted he claim the recognition he was due – if not for himself but for his family.
Years later, Johnnie Butler wrote a letter about his old friend. He had many memories of their time together, but one sentence stood above the rest:
“He was the finest, kindest man I ever had the privilege to meet.”
For a man who had endured so much, there could be no better tribute….’