大象传媒

This story has been inputted by a 大象传媒 Radio Bristol Peoples War Volunteer.

D.Y.B., D.Y.B., D.Y.B-ing and D.O.B., D.O.B., D.O.B-ing during the war!

Like many a young lad of the war period we were pleased and proud to have the opportunity to be independent, self-assertive and patriotic and many of us wore uniform in public 鈥� and even wore it to school on Empire Day. We certainly stood to attention whilst listening to the National Anthem both at the cinema and on the wireless before and after the King鈥檚 speech at Christmas. Camping was a big bonus, not just a holiday, it was a luxury which was rare, but also it was a holiday away from bossy, boring parents! If the truth be known I didn鈥檛 join out of patriotism but because Scouts had access to footballs, camping tents and girls (though not necessarily in that order).
Because of the war, entertainment was limited, but the Scouts in the Trowbridge area had a very popular and hard contested football league which played on Saturday mornings. Many a time there would be three players going from Trowbridge maybe to Hilperton or Semington 鈥� some 5 miles or so to play an away game 鈥� and all sharing one bike! One on the crossbar, one on the back parcel carrier, the third idiot pedaling. Buses were as rare as hen鈥檚 teeth. Then coming back muddied, tired and cold 鈥� for there were no hot baths in those days 鈥� who says kids weren鈥檛 tough (and mad) in the old days. My first Jamboree 鈥� or rather Senioree, for by then I was 16 and a Senior Scout and the war had ended and a proud member of the Orde Wingate Patrol 鈥� of Chindit fame 鈥� was at Corsham Court, Lord Methuen鈥檚 home. Sadly it poured, day in day out, but did not dampen our enthusiasm at the thrill, excitement of the unknown, unexpected and the opportunity to meet new people of different views (but of course, not hues, in those early days). The food was the boring same 鈥� rabbit stew! But those new experiences giving 鈥榖utterflies in the stomach鈥� which heralded every new unknown, I reveled in it.

I proudly still have the Jamboree pennant on my camp fire blanket, but unfortunately I have only dim memory of my colleagues 鈥� Peter Emmerson (with an older brother John), Mac 鈥楽ugar鈥� Candy, and Andrew Chalmers are the only names I can recall, and certainly no photos. For the luxury of owning a camera was practically banned or unheard of then, in fact I had to wait until I received one as a 21st birthday present many years later.
Cubs and Scouts, along with other patriotic youth organizations, of course played a prominent part in the town鈥檚 life, particularly during those troubled times. I recollect helping to fill sandbags using the small coal shovel from home, and tackling a ginormous pile of sand. The sandbags were brown and very rough/course to the hands, and though my hands were by no means delicate, the memory of that rough sacking treatment on the fingernails can make me still cringe even now. Mind you I think I got no further than holding the sack, for someone else (usually bigger than me) to fill 鈥� though a heck of a lot always seemed to end up in my pockets, shoes and shirt neck. The other war effort was collecting either wastepaper, aluminium pots and pans or old jam jars. The posters of the day exhorted all householders to either 鈥淒ig for Victory鈥� or 鈥淕ive for Victory鈥� and with the latter, tip out their junk etc. from their attics 鈥� and they did!! The junk they threw out to be re-used would fetch a fortune now at antique markets. But the glass bottles and jam jars were a different kettle of fish 鈥� and smelled like it sometimes. Many of the jars salvaged from the sheds etc. had not seen the light of day for years 鈥� nor had been washed. But they were all collected 鈥� whatever the shape or colour and loaded onto our Scout Troop Trek Cart.
Our Trek Cart was always in great demand, plus our scout hut hall, where there were piles of clothes and bedding that was thought to be useful for the refugees of the bombed-out and homeless. We in Trowbridge been lucky with only a few 鈥榟it and run鈥� raiders jettisoning their bomb loads after an abortive raid on Bristol. But Bath homes, and incidentally my Aunt Vera and Uncle Jack house , was hit, and being close neighbours our town offered warm hospitality to all that needed it. So it was not unusual for Scouts and their Trek Carts to be seen down at the stations to help the weary bomb-shocked refugees move their meagre goods salvaged from the damage even helping returned servicemen shift their kit bags, for there were no taxis. My Aunt and Uncle had been out one evening and stayed with friends during a particularly 鈥榣ocal鈥� raid and on returning to their home via a dark unlit street, for even windows were blacked out to ensure no guiding light would be seen by a visiting enemy bomber. They arrived at their front door, and as most people do, fumble for the key in their pocket or handbag 鈥� when an A.R.P.鈥檚 voice from over the road shouted, 鈥淒on鈥檛 worry about a door key mate! 鈥� you ain鈥檛 got no house! The Warden was of course correct 鈥� though there was a front fascia to their home 鈥� that was all there was! 鈥� all the building behind, as was the same with neighbours, had been flattened during the night. The street front walls swayed precariously until daylight when the Heavy Team A.R.P. moved in to make it safe. They both stayed with us for some nights until finding more suitable lodgings closer to their work etc. But back to my early involvement with scouting or to be strictly true as a cub from about 9yrs of age, all I can recall was wearing a horrible green itchy woolen roll neck jumper 鈥� in later years I made more use of it as a goalkeeper鈥檚 jumper for the Scout Football team.
My main interest was of course the outdoor potential of games and camping, and though of modest quality 鈥� our football was stuffed with straw and lashed together. Whilst our tent was 10th 鈥攈and ex-Boer War army Bell Tent which hustled a bit with some twenty unwashed lads sleeping in it 鈥� but we had unlimited, pure and continuous fun. I was proudly in the 1st Trowbridge Troop Bull Patrol, and as a Second I probably handled the rough and tumble no-bones spared game of 鈥楤ritish Bulldog鈥� with rather more enthusiasm than Scout Laws and Knots and Splices. First Aid, along with Fire Fighting 鈥� all very practical subjects under the circumstances, gave me my first badges and so I soon became (and remained) a second Class Scout. This Gave me a few perks except an opportunity to attend the regular Scout/Guide dances IF (and only if) I passed the dancing test. Fortunately I was at the same time a member of the Jacobites (the St. James Church Youth Club) where dancing was an enjoyable 鈥榤ust鈥�, so a test should not present a problem. However I had to convince the examiner that I could, and so one evening, with heart going like a train, I succumbed to the arms and charms of Skipper鈥檚 wife (Scoutmaster seemed to be all called Skipper). She was a charming lady of large, comfortable 鈥榮ofa and armchair鈥� proportions, light on her feet and enthusiastic in manner. So, held close to a large bust, and vigorously enough for my head to disappear into a scented talcum powder-filled cleavage, off we jolly well went. In the powdery distant I could just hear the rhythmic sound of the Palm Court Orchestra 12鈥� recorded music of the quickstep overlain with her muffled chant of 鈥� slow, slow, quick, quick slow, slow, slow quick slow, now turn 鈥� right 鈥� now 鈥� one more time dear boy!鈥�
One doesn鈥檛 hear too well when head was engulfed in what felt like enormous feather pillows. After we had trotted/galloped around for a few turns she finally and thankfully stopped and told me that 鈥� 鈥渢hough I ought to be more assertive in my partner control and guidance, I was surprisingly light on my feet鈥�!. I had neither the heart or courage to tell her that a) I couldn鈥檛 really exert any guiding pressure as my arms would not (could not) go around her expansive waste, or to point out that my lightness of feet was due to the fact that they were not even touching the floor! Such was her bear-like grip on me.
But I passed, and some weeks later duly presented myself appropriately scrubbed 鈥� and depending on the level of the partner鈥檚 nose, smelled of either mothball, carbolic soap or Brilliantine. As in modern days, there was a certain macho-attraction to girls and boys with rank and status 鈥� (I think it might be known as street cred!) and so it was then as long as either the P.L鈥檚, A.P.L鈥檚 had proficiency badges 鈥� and the more obscure the better.
I just scraped in, so there I was at the village hall, at a dance presided over by the vicar warming his backside on the only heat; a pot-bellied coke stove stationed half way between the tables laden with cloth-covered sandwiches and the shy groups of uniformed Guides and Scouts. Whilst Skip would stand guard over the sandwiches and lemonade, the Guide Leader and Akela would stand at the entrance door checking the names off, and quickly frisking the boys to prevent any smuggling in of cider.
The 鈥榖and鈥� struck up 鈥� one piano (vicar鈥檚 wife), one drum (an old Scout home on leave from the army) and a distant Uncle of mine who doubled up on Harmonica or Accordion. The decision as which to play, when, did not depend on the mood or suitability of the music, but which was playing him up most 鈥� his arthritis, rheumatism or his asthma.
The fox trot or quickstep, waltz or polka seemed to be always the same rhythm and timing 鈥� probably due to the fortissimo piano playing of the hymn-loving pianist. In those days, three tunes tended to be played 鈥� and that constituted 鈥榓 dance鈥� and it was always boys asking girls 鈥� BUT now and again the MC (our vicar rubbing his bony hands with fiendish glee) would announce a 鈥淟adies choice鈥� or a 鈥淟adies excuse-me鈥� dance.
Now this was the moment of truth 鈥� would the true value of all your previous chatting up lines came to fruition? Would the love-of-your-life come and ask you to dance 鈥� and would she get to you in time to claim you before that goggle-eyed, spotty, frizzy haired sister of your PL got to you first? The times that I have trembled, sweated, despaired or sighed with pleasure or relief on those occasions. Just think suffering all the agonies just to spend 2 or 3 minutes in bright public eye, dancing in embarrassed silence not daring to look at her, and wondering where in the hell should I be putting my right hand. Too high up would encounter a formidable and too intimate iron bracket of a bra-strap, to low was too close the smooth contours of a delightful, but forbidden bottom whereas halfway meant feeling the broad harsh strap of her guide belt suitably encountered with her hanging whistle and knife. Typical of the youngsters of those (and maybe now?) days we had the courage of naivety to start something 鈥� but woefully ignorant of how to end it. So after the final dance, it would be pure accident, and not clever contrived design, that saw you walking home your choice without being followed by jealous the Mickey-taking unlucky gang. And for what? 鈥� a chaste kiss on the cheek, (where do the noses go?) painful hug and hurried goodnight with an inevitable long walk back home!
But it was an exquisitely painfully pleasurable part of growing up 鈥� and I knew even then that this 鈥淓nglishman would always need time鈥�.
The there was the camping at Longleat (the estate of Lord Bath and there was no theme park and lions in those days) and was a milestone for it had many firsts for me. No sleeping bag but an ordinary blanket (ex-army I expect) with 6 or so large blanket pins, plus it was a patrol camp where we were encouraged 鈥榯o do our own thing鈥�. The camp site was only a matter of yards away from the lake where we could swim, whilst the fallen wood from the forest provided us with fire fuel 鈥� no such thing as conservation or a P.C. safety conscious world. Life was to be lived to the full. Unfortunately as it rained most of the time, our cooking fire did little, except make our billies sooty black. Which I supposed matched the contents, but by the time Friday came at the end of the week I fully realized how tasty carbonated spuds went down with solidified gravy and rather lumpy rabbit. Six or seven of us slept in a bell tent 鈥� feet to the pole 鈥� first digging the obligatory hole for ones hip! Then getting up in the morning just as you were nicely asleep all for a cold swim. Great days? Or dodgy memory?
The war and its seriousness 鈥� as really sadly the responsibility, the worry and the cross to be carried by our parents. I and my colleagues of the 1st Trowbridge had a though a luxury-free life, a limited travel world, and restricted communication life compared with the youth of the day 鈥� it was enjoyable, invigorating and character-building. Of course we had compensations 鈥� naivety, ignorance, abundant energy, little adult supervision and a strong code of right and wrong.

So as youth should, we enjoyed life by making the most of our circumstances though sadly and maybe selfishly only half understand the pain and the concern of our parents. They were deeply loved and publicly loved, and I am positive were loved in return.

My childhood was both a lucky one and a happy one.
Thanks to many unsung heroes.

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