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I was at school during the early days of the war, leaving in 1942 at the age of 14. I lived at home with my parents who were managers of a public house — The Gladstone. My father was an air-raid warden and the pub was a stirrup pump post. Fortunately these facilities were never needed as Wolverhampton on the whole escaped the bombing, although we often saw the night sky lit up with reflections of the fires caused by the Luftwaffe air raids on Birmingham.

I have always been a roamer and interested in all things mechanical, especially aeroplanes. When I learned that Wolverhampton airport at Pendeford had been designated an elementary Flying Training School for the duration of the war, I used to cycle there and watch trainee pilots doing circuits and bumps in their yellow painted Tiger Moth Aircraft - it kindled an interest for myself to join the Royal Air Force but, unfortunately, when I applied to join in later years, I did not pass the physical examination.

Lots of the pub customers were called up for active service and some of them had harrowing experiences. I personally knew of 2 men who suffered serious wounds and shell shock and were invalided out of the army after the Dunkirk evacuation and the Dieppe raid. They were never the same men again.

The pub was situated on the A41, one of the main roads through the town which, before the arrival of the motorways, connected the north and south of the country. I remember in early 1944 a tremendous increase in military traffic heading south, which I later learned was the start of the build up for D-Day. One day an American army truck stopped outside the pub and a dozen or so G.I.s came in asking for whisky. This was very scarce during the war, but my father kept some on one side for special customers. We have relations living in the American Middle West,- I have a cousin who served as a navigator in the U.S. 8th air force-, and when the sergeant in charge said he came from Chicago my father became very interested and gave them all the whisky from our limited stock. In return the Americans gave us a king size tin of Spam to supplement our meagre wartime rations. We realized that the build up to the forthcoming invasion of N.W. Europe meant that some of the soldiers were on a one way ticket to France and we were pleased to have been able to help them to face their coming ordeal. Eventually, on the evening of JUNE 5, the air was filled with the sound of the air armada heading for Normandy leading the following morning to the announcement on the radio that the invasion had successfully established a beach head. D-Day the 6th June-the longest day-had begun.

It was of course, the beginning of the end, and when it came on MAy 8 1945 VE Day celebrations were country wide, and we did our bit at the pub by helping to organize a street party for our customers and their children. But there was sadness too for 2 of our customers whose sons did not survive the war-Charlie, an able seaman who perished on an Arctic convoy to Russia, and Ron, a fighter pilot who was killed during the Battle of Britain. I often wondered how may of the Americans we befriended survived the war.
Some years after the war I visited some of my relatives who still live in America. We had a joyous reunion, but that’s another story.


THE TEAM CAPTAIN

The old man sat on a bench in the park watching some boys at play.
He was intently watching the game when a loose ball came his way.
As he threw it back he remembered the time when he’d captained the School football team.
Where were they now his old team mates and friends who had once been
So terribly keen.

They had joined the county regiment when the country went to war.
Serving with distinction, one could not ask for more.
They fought on many battlefields and they all died one by one.
In Normandy and Burma from dawn till setting sun.
The conflict raged for six long years, we lost so many men.
We must remember our dead heroes, it must never happen again.

At sundown the park keeper was doing his duty, closing the park for the night.
When he saw the old man sitting there he thought that this cannot be right.
There was no response from the old man when told closing time was past.
The ‘Last Post’ had sounded for him, he had joined his old team mates at last.

The epitaph on a war memorial in Burma says it all-----

WHEN YOU GO HOME,
TELL THEM AND SAY.
FOR ALL YOUR TOMORROWS,
WE GAVE OUR TODAY.

[This story was submitted to the People's War site by Wolverhampton Libraries on behalf of Alan Deacey and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions]

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