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Continued from : A rural child touched by war, Part One (1939-1942)

A new beginning

The industries of Teesside seemed to be a prime target for the Germans as they tried to disrupt the production of war materials and supplies in the early 1940s. My family therefore decided to move away from the danger area.

The bombing of our house in 1941 had been quite unfortunate and perhaps, a chance event, but the subsequent repairs to the house made the living extremely hard and it was thought desirable by my family to leave the area completely, and try to find a better life for ourselves.

My father replied to an advertisement for an experienced horseman for a farm at Aldbrough St John, a small North Yorkshire village that lay between Darlington and Richmond. He got the job and the family moved to a house at Kilton Grange in the village in mid 1942.

The village was a lovely place, it had a long history of good agricultural practice, most of the farms had once belonged to the Dukes of Northumberland who had a great house, until the 1930s at nearby Stanwick Park. It had three pieces of land that were commons, they were called greens and local smallholders were allowed to graze cattle and poultry on them. Through the middle of the village ran the beck, a stream full of trout, eels and newts, a great place for a young lad to grow up, far from the war.

What we hadn鈥檛 realised though was the popularity of the area with the military from Catterick Camp, which lay only eight miles to the south.

Life on the village farm in 1943

The farm was basically arable, with wheat, barley and oats being the main crop. They did rear beast though, but only had a small number of milkers. Each of the farm workers had a pig and a stye to keep it in, together with the use of a slaughter house when the appropriate time came for the bacon to be produced and hung from the ceiling in its muslin wrapper.

Dad was the second horseman, Tommy Hartley being in charge, a wiry man who always wore leggings and breeches. They had six Cleveland Bays which were kept in a long stable next to the farmhouse, the machinery, ploughs, harrows, binders etc being kept in a circular 鈥榗art house鈥� which was underneath a building called the 鈥業rishman鈥檚 Cott鈥�. This housed itinerant casual workers in the harvest season, having only wooden lockers around its walls which doubled up as a bed for their comfort.

Prisoners provide casual labour

For the harvest of 1942 and 1943 they got additional help from Catterick Camp. Each morning, at 7 a.m. an elderly army lorry would arrive. Riding in the cab would be two armed soldiers and in the back were the sad figures of what turned out to be White Russian prisoners of war. Apparently they had been interned in Norway and shipped to Catterick to await the end of the war.

The village people had a great sympathy for these unfortunate men. Many were from Northern and Eastern Russia, with almond shaped eyes and strange coloured skin. None spoke any English but all were willing to work hard, stooking the sheaves of corn and loading them onto the Army lorries to take them to the stack-yard where they dried prior to being thrashed.

I used to sit with them when they had their ten o鈥檆locks and three o鈥檆locks, provided by Mrs. Fenwick, the farmer鈥檚 wife. She would bring the food to the field in huge wicker baskets and it was washed down with great jugs of cold tea

As a four year old boy, I must have reminded them of their own families, far away across the North Sea. Even at that age I could feel the sadness of many of them when they took me on their knees and sang to me in a tongue that I didn鈥檛 understand. I often wonder what became of them; I understand that they were treated abominably when they had to be returned home in 1946.

The heat of battle

Far from being away from the war, Aldbrough became an essential area for military training. Convoys of motor cycles from the Royal Signals Regiment would wind their way through the surrounding lanes, descending on the village, fording the beck at the point where the cows entered the water to drink. Their bikes churned up the mud on the 鈥楥lay Holes鈥�, these were the remains of a early nineteenth century brick works at the East end of the village, and the men bivouacked on the village green for the night.

Other convoys were made up of clattering, steel tracked, brenn-gun carriers and even heavy tanks at times. One day, a squadron of giant, long barelled, heavy guns took up positions and commenced firing practice, chewing up the outfield of the cricket strip with their giant tyres as the guns recoiled, and spitting out two foot long shell cases. It was all very exciting stuff.

I was fascinated by the mechanics of it all, the village only boasted a handful of cars at the time, the doctor, and the vicar and a couple of the local landed-gentry had them. I got to know about heavy machinery and developed an interest in things mechanical that has been with me all my life since then.

One of my favorite kinds of vehicle was the armoured car, I used to chat a friendly corporal and be allowed to sit in the driver鈥檚 seat or the radio operators chair and soon learned how to operate the leaver steering and a Morse key.

Death in the air

My brother, Owen, was due to be born in April 1944, but in fact was born quite prematurely. I was sent to stay with my aunt Jessie, she of the 'yellow coat', and her husband Tom. He was also a farm worker and lived at Moulton, a village a couple of miles from Scotch Corner and Croft aerodrome. He was a lovely man, a great gardener and a champion ploughman and hedge cutter.

It was whilst I was there that I was awakened one March evening, a Saturday as I recall by an almighty crash, 鈥渕ust be a plane鈥� I was informed. The next morning, we were up early and went to Blue Anchor Wood to investigate. It was a bright crisp morning as we made our way up the lane to where we could see activity in the wood.

We were stopped at the gate by a soldier wielding a '303' rifle. After a bit of negotiation by my uncle, they let us go a bit further into what was a scene from hell. There were trees at the edge of the wood with the top branches broken, then further in they were cut in half and then about a hundred yards into the wood, they were all flattened and scattered among them were chunks of metal that I now know were the remains of a Halifax bomber.

Soldiers were looking through the wreckage and we took up a conversation with one of them, he showed me where the pilot鈥檚 seat was in the smouldering pile and then pointed out the co-pilots seat a good distance away. Even to my young eye, there could have been no hope of survival for the unfortunate training crew as the plane had lost power and descended into the mature trees, ending up in a tangled and broken junk heap. It was the first time that I had seen death in a human being.

We returned to the gate, where the guard was enjoying a corned beef sandwich, he offered us one but we didn鈥檛 seem to have much apatite.

Gas buses

Darlington was the nearest big town to Aldbrough, my mother used to take me there and swap our clothing coupons for new pants and shoes, or even second hand ones, when the money allowed. It was served by a two hourly bus service from the village. I was fascinated by buses and still am.

We used to get the United 29 service back home. The 27 and 28 ran from the next stands to Catterick and Richmond, they were always packed with soldiers and airmen in uniform returning to barracks, I remember seeing many Canadian airmen among them.

More interesting though were the buses. A lot of them were pulling little two wheeled trailers on which was mounted an iron vessel, with a coke fire inside it. They gave off a peculiar smell, I later learned in my chemistry class at Richmond Grammar School in the 1950s, that it was 鈥� producer gas鈥� Because of the shortage of conventional motor fuel, water was passed over the red hot coke and the gas that was generated was used to fuel the bus.

A lease-lend tractor

In 1944, a tractor arrived at the farm. Mr. Fenwick told me it was American and had been sent over to help mechanise the farm to that it could produce more food. It was a Massey Harris, a great red beast with yellow flutes in the bonnet that reminded me of horse reigns.

My dad was given the task of driving the thing. He did his best with it, but the transition from horses was really a bit difficult. There was no machinery that could be used with it, it all had to be modified by the local blacksmith and draw bars fitted instead of shafts that had been used for the horses. Dad was a good horse ploughman, he usually won the single furrow contest at the local ploughing matches but he couldn鈥檛 keep a straight furrow with the tractor. It hurt his pride a bit I know.

VE Day

He did get a chance to show the Massey Harris off in 1945. VE day arrived and the population was very relieved, although the war in the far-east was still raging with great intensity.

It was decided that the village would hold a giant bonfire on the low green in celebration. Dad and the Massey were dispatched to the church yard at Stanwick and a lot of Yew trees were pruned, they are lethal to cattle and need to be trimmed when they overhang the churchyard wall. All the village youths went too, riding back with a full trailer load of the branches for the fire. I rode with pride of place on the mudguard of the tractor, I felt very proud that my dad could handle so much power

So the war came to a close, we had a celebration at the village school, Miss Pybus, one of the two teachers, gave all the twenty pupils an lovely red apple and a packet of dried egg powder , a gift from the people of Canada she said. I got my illuminated address from King George, 鈥淣ow that we celebrate victory鈥� it read.

Peace comes again

Returning soldiers joined the War-Ag. A sort of mans Land Army that had a hostel in a large Manor House in the village, they would go out to work the land and in the evening enjoy picture shows by the Army Kineme Corp, all the village people would go too. It was !a great introduction to Laurel and Hardy for us lads

I got on with my life, the war had given me a wealth of experience in my seven short years, I wasn鈥檛 frightened by much and I could converse easily with total strangers and it had given me a taste for things mechanical, so that when my time to go into the adult world came I realised that agriculture wasn鈥檛 for m, but that鈥檚 another story!

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