大象传媒

Sunday September third nineteen thirty-nine a day of destiny for people huddled around wireless sets in every city town and hamlet in Great Britain. People praying for peace while waiting for the Prime Ministers speech to the nation at eleven a-m on a day when the sun shone in all its glory and all should have been well with the world, instead of the subdued apprehension that cloaked my family, relatives and neighbours gathered in our tiny terraced house in Salford.
People with vivid memories of the first World War, some having taken part in it and all remembering the time when loved one鈥檚 and friends accompanied by military bands marched off to that blood bath never to return, thoughts that revived pain and grief for the adults in our parlour.
An oppressive feeling that was lost to me, my cousins and friends aged between eight and ten years old sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor chattering and squabbling as we played the card game snap, until silenced by the adults telling us to be quiet and come into the parlour as the sound of 鈥楤ig Ben鈥� boomed from the wireless speaker, followed by the typical clipped Oxford accent of the B.B.C announcer introducing the Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain.
Neville Chamberlain, a man who鈥檚 only claim to a place in history was when he arrived back from Germany in nineteen thirty eight, to step off an aircraft smiling and waving a piece of paper that he and Herr Hitler had signed assuring the world of 鈥減eace in our time鈥�?
But now this man of paper was on the wireless telling the British people in monotonic tones, that he had sent a stern note to the German Chancellor 鈥楬err Hitler鈥� stating that unless he withdrew his forces from Poland by eleven a-m a state of war would exist between us鈥� then adding, I have to tell you now that I have not received the assurances I seek, so consequently this country is now at war with Germany.

An earth shattering statement delivered with as much passion and anger as a dead fish on a fishmonger鈥檚 slab. Chamberlain鈥檚 monotonic tone never altering as he uttered the words that would change the world and our lives for ever, plunging this country once again into another holocaust of mindless killing less than twenty two years after the war to end all wars?
The only action Chamberlain鈥檚 statement did that was of any use was to stir Great Britain from its lethargic sleep of depression and bring a flurry of activity from white hall bureaucrats, starting the conscription of young men aged eighteen to thirty five for military service in his Majesty鈥檚 forces, once again to defend our sacred isle from tyranny.
The usual propaganda blurb governments use to incite the young into war, young men like my father, uncles, and family friends, all members of the territorial army being ordered to report to the army barracks on Cross lane, Salford, Lancashire.
Fortunately on the day they reported to the barracks the weather was warm and sunny as they were documented for duty before being marched out of the barracks in to the side streets of its surrounding areas, to wait endless hours for trains coming in to Salford railway station only yards away to take the flower of youth to their destiny.
Hundreds of young men lying or sitting on the street pavements, some smoking woodbines while in deep thought, others playing cards to pass the time, some talking animatedly of what war was going to be like and laughing with the bravado of youth to cover up their fear, then joining their friends playing mouth organs, to sing the patriotic ditties of the first world war too hide their apprehensive fear from women and children crying bitter tears while searching the streets for their loved ones, desperately hoping too find them before they boarded the trains taking them to transit camps.
The women instinctively feeling the final urgency too say last good bye鈥檚 to men they would probably never see again. How true this proved to be in the years ahead for most of the weeping women and children waving off railway trains with men hanging out of the coach windows shouting and waving as they disappeared on their journey to eternity.
The young men鈥檚 departure leaving behind a void of ominous silence in the deserted streets where once noisy boisterous pubs stood as empty memorials to the youth that once laughed and sang there, showing off to their girls with mischievous laughter.
Young bucks with everything to live for now all gone, swallowed in an emptiness encompassed by the cloak of death that left a despondent lethargy, which fortunately turned in on its self in the fullness of time in our communities, when the women and their families left behind in the vacuum of loneliness grew closer, casting religious dogma and convictions aside to seek solace from any human presence.
Women who had been religious enemies for years suddenly building bonds of friendship and camaraderie, an invisible security from fear and loneliness much as widows do in grief with the loss of their men. Women shocked, bewildered and frightened by the speed of war that changed their ordered lives were now having to face every-day problems of life alone, bringing up children in a forced situation of do or die compliance which they took in their stride.
For these were women with a developed a stoical attitude, having spent their lives coping with poverty, fear and adversity when bringing up families in a depression, a traumatic character builder that stiffened their backbones to finest Toledo steel when cast in the mould of mother and father, taking over where their men-folk left off putting aside the protection of femininity as they stepped into a man鈥檚 world doing hard manual war work of every description, then too return home to the pressures of raising families, a gargantuan task they handled with steadfast pride while retaining feminine gentleness.
Even in the face bureaucrats and minor politico鈥檚 running amok with their new found powers, disrupting their lives with food rationing books, identity cards and clothing coupons, plus a shortage of this, that and everything. A tea drinking bureaucrat鈥檚 paradise where he was God and must to be obeyed, insidious little men whose stock in trade answer to all questions was, 鈥渨ell there鈥檚 war on.鈥�
The same quotation they used when they sent corporation lorries and workmen to take garden gates, iron ornaments, railings and foot scrapers from the houses. Items of personal pride the women black-leaded and polished to enhance the brown or white stoned pavement flags surrounding them.
Their last little bit of pride and dignity snatched from them along with the park and church railings also taken with out so much as a bye your leave never to be returned, leaving nothing but steps, windowsills, pavements and back entries to donkey stone in their wake.
A scrap mans dream taking for free the much-prized polished ornamentation, a pointless exercise for the wrought iron was of low grade and only fit for that purpose. But it was an order from those insidious little bureaucrats and one that no doubt filled many ever-open back pockets.
That exercise in stupidity followed by builders erecting air raid shelters at the bottom of streets and back entries that were controlled by a new elite force amongst us. Middle aged men to old to go to war issued with black steel helmets and armbands bearing the letters in white print A.R.P.
Armchair warriors whose transformation was astounding! Instantly turned from being henpecked subservient husbands to masters of all they surveyed, rushing around blowing whistles, or wearing gas masks and whirring rattles, giving orders to the local populace of where to go and what to do in emergencies. Their speciality at night skulking in the darkest recesses of the unlit streets waiting for the unwary to open a door or leave a curtain slightly open showing the merest chink of light that would incur the A.R.P. wardens explosive wrath and roar of (PUT THAT LIGHT OUT) These lions of the A.R.P ever vigilant and on the prowl delighting in their new found power and heaven sent excuse to get away from their wives for a little while to do their duty?
Duty a word soon taken up by younger men in reserved occupations joining the newly formed 鈥楲ocal Defence Volunteers鈥� later to be renamed the Home Guard. These square jawed, stiff upper lipped super men of steel we children watched in awe in the local park doing their military drilling parades with broom handles, there being no rifles or uniforms for these monoliths of fearsome stature being trained by vintage world war one sergeants and corporals.
N.C.O鈥檚 who would have men running about, charging at inanimate bags of straw, stabbing at them and screaming like the hounds of hell, encouraged by their sergeants vocal tirades putting the fear of God into the men psychologically turning them into robots, a method the sergeants had learned from their wives.
One such sergeant I remember鈥� way past his prime and unfortunately very bow legged, short and fat, sporting a large moustache which bristled when vociferously drilling his platoon in the local park, berating his men angrily with charismatic force when they dropped their broom handles, or turned left, when they should have turned right walking into one another.
A scene of farce that turned into chaos, more so when the sergeant gave the authoritative command for his men to line up in columns of three ready to march out of the park back to their church hall head quarters.
The sergeant positioning himself at the head of the platoon telling his men to march like him with bags of swank and swagger as the 鈥楪uards鈥� do. Then giving the order by the left quick march leading the platoon out of the park marching with military swagger, his bowlegs truly port and starboard and the platoon behind taking him at his word falling into his bow legged gait as they passed us cheering laughing children and a group of bemused women onlooker鈥檚 clapping the bow legged platoon passing in all it鈥檚 magnificent splendour.
The women鈥檚 applause swelling the moustachioed old warrior with pride and he gave the order 鈥榚ye鈥檚 right鈥� saluting the women smartly as he and his wibbley wobbly platoon of would be warriors passed them, broom handles askew on their shoulders waving like a field of wheat in the wind, Fred Karno would have been proud of them, 鈥楰eystone Coppers鈥� to a man.
Although I have painted a jocular slant of my memories of the A.R.P and Home Guard, I must point out that these same men along with the A.F.S / auxiliary fire service, Fire brigade, Rescue services, W.V.S, Police and Civil Defence services a large number of these personnel being women working along side the men in the most hazardous of conditions. All these services without the slightest shadow of a doubt did a magnificent job which we civilians were grateful for when 鈥楬err Hitler鈥檚 master race paid us their first visit after the preceding month of the so called of phoney war.
A time to laugh about but a good moral booster, that gave people outlets for their emotions instead of brooding on what was to come? As it did one night, coming suddenly with death as the elderly and children slept in their beds, and adults huddled in front of open fires drinking ovaltine while listening to the wireless.
Peaceful contented entertainment suddenly disturbed by a throbbing roar overhead, a sound never heard before startling the community all unsure of what to do but switch house lights off and thrown open windows and doors to shout across the little street to neighbours asking what it was?
A question answered when another sound came like a million leaves swishing in high winds, with every person looking skywards into the blackness wondering what it could be, it was a sound we all come to know so well.
High explosive bombs coming down, dropped by Junkers eighty eight bombers鈥� the first bombs exploding in streets around us lifting our houses off their foundations and smashing all the window鈥檚 just as the warning sirens wail filled the air over the panic and confusion of some women screaming hysterically in blind panic, while others busily looked for their loved ones in the blackness shouting their names, calling them to their sides then grabbing bedding and clothes before running to the air raid shelters.
Once safe inside the shelters mothers wrapping their children in the bedding, before looking and asking after relatives to see if they were safe, and when satisfied they were settling down with their children though terrified themselves assuring them not to be frightened it would be alright despite the tremendous noise of explosions of the holocaust out side, for in war fear and laughter are natural emotions that are never far apart, as we found out that night and many other nights and incidents after that there is also a funny side to war.
For ten minutes after we settled in the shelter for the night serenaded by the crump鈥� crump鈥� bang explosions of bombs鈥� the shelter doors burst open and an elderly couple from our street tumbled in arguing noisily. Dennis and Lottie Luckman a lovely old couple who would help any body in time of need or sickness, their only fault which they thrived on being the need to constantly argue with each other.
Their bickering being a source of amusement to us children, (The adults as well though they would never admit it) But regardless of their constant battles Dennis and Lottie loved each other dearly and were inseparable. Herr Hitler鈥檚鈥� bombs and his master race making no difference to them as they tumbled through the shelter doors arguing.
Dennis limping and sporting a black eye鈥� carrying a huge bundle listening resignedly to Lottie bitterly complaining, 鈥淭hat they could have been killed because of him!鈥� with an added, then what would we have done.
It seems we found out later that when the first bombs dropped Lottie and Dennis were tucked up in bed, but panicked when rudely awakened by Hitler鈥檚 wake up call. Lottie telling Dennis to grab the bundle of bedding she had ready for just this emergency. Dennis in the darkness grabbing the bundle but loosing sight of Lottie who ran out of the front door heading for the shelters, while for some unknown reason Dennis ran out of the back door carrying the bundle and falling over dustbins in the pitch-blackness of the back entry where he lay moaning.
While Lottie half way down the street suddenly realised that Dennis was not with her and returned to her house in panic calling her beloved鈥檚 name. His answer of agonising moans and calls for help from the black recess of the back entry terrifying Lottie thinking her beloved had been mortally wounded as she frantically searched for him, skinning her hands and knees on overturned dust bins as she did until finally finding her him by smell as well as sound.
For Dennis stank to high heaven with the rubbish from the dust bins all over him, fire ashes, tea leaves, fish heads, potato peelings, cabbage leaves, all kinds of unmentionable filth at least a week old delicately blended with the perfume 鈥楨we de ROT.鈥� But this didn鈥檛 faze the intrepid Lottie dragging her beloved out of the entry鈥� then through her spick and span house still carrying the large bundle with the evil smelling filth dripping of him and it. But Lottie didn鈥檛 mind she was so thankful Dennis wasn鈥檛 dead though still fearful he could be dying, that is until she realised that Dennis wasn鈥檛 so much as mortally wounded, but just smelling badly. A revelation turning Lotties loving compassion to anger and she belted her beloved in the eye for worrying the life out of her as she put it.
Their argument continuing through the streets with bombs exploding all around until finally they reached the shelter and fell through its doors still arguing, the commotion bringing the local priest hurriedly to the shelter doors thinking his ministrations were needed by some poor soul on their way to meet their maker.
But instead of religious ministrations all he needed was the ability to referee the fisticuffs of two elderly pugilists and calm the troubled waters, which he did separating the geriatric gladiators and sitting them down with advice to set out their bedding and try to get some sleep.
Reluctantly the warring couple agreed and in the dim light Lottie proceeded to open the bundle of bedding, which unfortunately for Dennis it did not contain. It鈥檚 contents being their dirty washing which he had grabbed in panic. Seeing her smalls and dirty washing spread out for all the world to see Lottie exploded as good as any of Herr Hitler鈥檚 bombs and once again she belted Dennis to match his other eye鈥檚 to a nice shade of black watched by a bemused priest trying to stifle his mirth and people all around roaring with laughter in the middle of a holocaust, this was my baptismal to war in Salford laughing in the face of adversity and 鈥� __ to Herr Hitler and his master race.

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