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Much has been written and told of the heroic evacuation of our soldiers from the beaches of Dunkirk way back in 1940. Stories have been told of the brave ‘last few’ who gave covering fire whilst their comrades made a desperate dash across the sand to the ‘little ships’ which had, along with their owners, braved both the sea and the enemy in their effort to help. Accounts of the final dash under murderous gunfire, the scrambling into the craft and the fight, not only against the elements, but also against the bullets and bombs of the Stuka dive-bombers during the journey back home have been retold. The relief of landing safely on the shores of ‘good old England’ has been well documented.

But there the stories usually end.

Shortly after those events, I, as a 9 year-old boy, with feet on the bottom rail and elbows and chin firmly over the top of the fence, watched, as 9 year-olds do, the railway engines pulling their loads into the railway-sidings adjacent to Mansfield’s
LMS station. But this evening was different. Instead of the usual trucks full of cows (which were, of course, always bulls) coal and, perhaps, exciting cargoes of army lorries and tanks, the engines pulled carriage after carriage after carriage full of soldiers..... Soldiers who waved and laughed to us as we waved and shouted in return.

My friends and I had heard about the Battle of Dunkirk whilst, during our enforced silence, our Dads had listened to the six o’clock news on the wireless.So is this what all the grown-ups had meant?

My 9year-old brain kicked into top gear. Where will they all eat their supper...and where will they sleep? There was no room at our house. Seven of us lived there already..in a two-bedroomed home.. and my big brother and I had to sleep in the bathroom as it was. My Granny had a spare room but two soldiers slept there already, and Mansfield hadn’t enough Grannies anyway. Ah well! that wasn’t my problem. Mine was to get home and prepare for school in the morning.

The next morning, having had breakfast and been ‘hoss-mucking’ for Dad’s allotment garden, I went to school nice and early. My friend Lionel always brought an old tennis ball to school and we played ‘footie’ in the school yard. The teacher clanged the brass hand-bell at exactly 8.45am and we all lined up in rows according to our classes.

But this was no ordinary morning.

We had ‘prayers’ in the yard instead of inside the school. Afterwards, the Headmaster, ‘Daddy Ward’, told us the school had been requisitioned (whatever that meant) and we were to go elsewhere for classes. Excitement and anticipation, along with a great deal of anxiety, grew. Where was ‘elsewhere’ to be?
We were marched in Indian-file from our school-yard.
Soon we realised the meaning of our school being requisitioned........those soldiers were going to eat and sleep in our school.

We were marched, not to the nearest park with its swings, seasaws and ocean-wave roundabouts,but to the Recreation ground which completely lacked such schoolboy attractions. On our arrival those kids who dashed the fastest and pushed the hardest sat on the more comfortable framework and wheels of the cricket sight-screen. We, the majority, had to sit on the grass. Now sitting on grass to eat a couple of slices of bread and jam and drink a bottle of ‘pop’ is one thing, but doing sums and the like causes uncomfortable bums and sore elbows, so going home time couldn’t arrive soon enough.

The next few days continued in much the same way and then, one morning, we were marched off again...to another ‘rec’.Again, perhaps wisely, there were no swings or mountain slide in sight. We wondered why the change. The ground was just as hard.
Things couldn’t get any worse.

And then it rained.

Now we learned the wisdom of the move. We were hastily lined up and ‘crocodile-walked’ across Nottingham Road now devoid of traffic except for convoys of army- lorries shepherded along by dispatch-riders on big motor-bikes.On the other side of the road a miracle akin to the feeding of the multitude with a loaf and three fishes took place...we were all herded into the small chapel on the corner of the street.
Once inside we were told to sit crossed-legged on the wooden floor. There we were, in lines according to class, packed in like sardines in cans using the shoulder-blades of the child in front as a desk, writing our composition (yes! compositions not essays in those days.) entitled ‘Why we attend school on a football pitch’. That football pitch wasn’t so uncomfortable after all.

The days rolled into a week and the weeks, perhaps, to a fortnight and then, overjoyed, we were told we were to go to another school...not our school but a proper school nonetheless. No more chapel...no more hard grass. And then an ignominy from which I have still yet to recover...I was told to attend the High Oakham School for Girls ...for Girls. (Yuk!). I tried to console myself. At least it had a play field on which to play and benches and desks on which to work in relative comfort.....but Girls!
The weeks seemed to roll on forever and then one day we were told to report to our school the next morning.
Now don’t misunderstand me. I was a 9year-old boy after all so didn’t exactly like our school, but it did have one thing going for it. When I entered I walked through a door which had, carved upon its lintel in stone no less, that magical word...

‘b´Ç²â²õ’

Wycliffe Lummus.
ex pupil of:-
King Edward Junior School, Mansfield.
Forest Road Recreation Ground.
Nottingham Road Rec. (at the rear of ‘The Plough Inn’).
Gedling Street Chapel.
and High Oakham School for Girls (Ugh!)

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