大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Roland Gardner from Sidley On Line Centre, and has been added to the website on behalf of Colin Hammond with his permission, and he fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

THE KING鈥橲 BISCUITS

After sixty-two long years, I have decided to make a clean breast of it. For sixty-two years I have been waiting for a knock on the door in the middle of the night, to hear that the Nuremberg Trials have been reconvened and that I am going to have to pay my debt to society. Yes, I am a fugitive war criminal 鈥� or at least, I am an accessory to a war crime.

In 1943 I lived with my mother in Parker Road, Hastings, East Sussex. Not too far from our house was a makeshift recreation ground where we lads used to play football, or in the summer, cricket. The facilities were not lavish 鈥� basically there was a stretch of grass and an air raid shelter to serve the needs of the nearby residents. At that time of the war, the Luftwaffe was just getting into its stride with the tip and run raids. Pairs of fighter-bombers would fly in low over the Channel, thus avoiding RDF detection, pull up sharp over the cliffs at Fairlight, then turn hard left and attack whatever part of Hastings was out of luck that day. Because they remained undetected until they breasted the cliffs, when the Observer Corps would report their incursion, there was often no time to sound the alert. For me, orders from the High Command (my mum) were unequivocal. If there was time I was to run straight home. If not, it was directly into the shelter, where I would stay until the all clear sounded. All my mates were under similar orders, but we were soon aware that one of our numbers did not observe the approved 鈥榓ir raid drill.鈥� Partly to preserve confidentiality, but mostly in case he comes to beat me up, I shall refer to him as 鈥楢lfie.鈥�

Seriously, Alfie was a lovely lad, who despite leading a life that was even less privileged than the rest of us, would always be ready with a joke, and was unfailingly good humoured. When the air raid siren went, instead of going home like the rest of us, he would leap on his rusty old bike, and pedal off furiously in the direction of the West Hill.
Those of you who know Hastings, will be aware that the West Hill overlooks both the Old Town, and the newer parts stretching towards the pier. Because of its dominant position, it was ideal for the four twin Bofors anti-aircraft guns that were sited there.

After the all clear had gone, and the excitement died down a bit, we would all re-muster
on our piece of waste ground. Alfie would turn up, usually a bit later, clutching a four-pound tin of biscuits. Sometimes they were semi-sweet biscuits, and sometimes they were water biscuits, but either way, they would be shared out in equal parts between all of us. Obviously, we were all curious as to the source of the ration-free bounty, but Alfie steadfastly maintained his silence. Long after the war was over, I bumped into Alfie, or Mr X as he is now known, and for old times sake we slipped into a handy pub for a pint. Half way down the second pint, I broached the subject that had been burning me up for years. He laughed, and said 鈥淚 knew you were going to ask me about that.鈥�

Soon after the anti-aircraft batteries had first been sited on the West Hill, Alfie
would go up there to watch the gun crews practicing. He noticed that their rations and personal kit were all kept in the tents behind the batteries. He also noticed that the only times when the tents were certain to be empty, was when the crews went to action stations, as in, whenever the air raid siren sounded.

I think that despite the concealment of the exact source of the biscuits, we all knew that the gains were 鈥榠ll-gotten.鈥� We had also seen the signs posted on bombed buildings in Hastings. Penalties for looting were severe. Penal Servitude was one option, and, if I remember rightly, deportation was the other. I, along with my fellow criminals, had knowingly and with malice aforethought, eaten the King鈥檚 biscuits, in the full knowledge that they were stolen. I don鈥檛 fancy the penal servitude, though these days I understand it鈥檚 called marriage, but I believe that Australia can be quite nice.

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