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Baker’s Round

By

George Highmore

It was August Nineteen Forty Four, in Surrey.
On the fourteenth of that month I became a fourteen year old, but I had left school well before the start of those summer holidays because we were spending more time in the school air raid shelters than in the classrooms as we scurried from the frequent V1 pilot-less bombs, or Doodlebugs as they were known, flying quite low and noisily overhead, bound for London. Although they weren’t aimed deliberately at us, they frequently fell short of their target to devastate two or three houses, or even a whole street, in our local area. School was deemed too dangerous for the time being and a long suspension took the place of the holidays.
I’d found myself a job as a Baker’s round assistant, helping Derek Hollis, a local rounds-man on his deliveries which took us out of Tolworth to Worcester Park every working day and Saturdays. The distance of some six miles would constitute a strenuous walk today but in 1944 with all that bread aboard it was much, much more. We were delivering to over sixty households with the cargo stacked tightly inside a big wooden bakers’ cart which weighed a lot when empty and became an unbelievable burden when full. Add to that the fact that Derek had to stand within and grasp two long wooden shafts like some cart horse at the front whilst I pushed from the back, the six miles feeling like sixty. Even gentle hills saw Derek leaning forward with shafts between his biceps and feet fighting for every forward yard and me at the rear with my back against two closed access doors, pushing backward with my heels fighting to consolidate every yard that Derek had gained. To that massive weight was added the noise of the two four foot diameter metal tyred wheels crunching loudly on the concrete roads.
We were very conscious of the Doodlebug offensive going on over our heads. Tolworth, Worcester Park, and the distance between had seen a few misguided V1s fall to make holes in fields or gaps in streets so we were very aware of the dangers. A local warning system existed for those going about their business and comprised a long and extended wailing of the familiar siren to warn of Doodlebugs in the local area, supplemented by a hooter, sounded from the nearest police station to warn of immediate danger. So, on hearing the siren, Derek and I would stop the noisy cart at each address and listen for the hooter or the unmistakeable drone of an approaching Doodlebug. There was little we could do between stops because of the noise from the metal wheels.
It was inevitable that one day we would be caught out.
The sun was warm and bright, but very windy. We had half emptied the cart of its bread and cakes. We were looking forward to the easier part of the delivery round and, although the siren had sounded some half hour earlier, we’d heard no hooters. At peace with the world and the round, I was looking forward to picking up my five shillings wages from Derek when we both noticed a lady leaning out of a bedroom window waving furiously at us. We stopped the cart and followed the direction of her pointing hand. The Doodlebug was not coming directly toward us and, had it stopped its engine in the usual manner and plunged to earth, it was probable that it would land and explode some safe distance away. We watched fascinated by its noise and nearness as it passed, engine fully roaring, onwards to London.
We had reckoned without the wind.
The engine stopped, the nose dipped, the wind caught the machine and it turned back towards us in its dive to earth. We’d not rehearsed this, but without a singled word, we clambered into the cart from both front and rear hatches, shut them tight and proceeded to pile the balance of our stock around our heads. The explosion came, but not too close. Our ears popped, the cart swayed then gently toppled and we struggled to get out through the hatches that had been so easy to enter. We never saw the point of impact, and there was no debris to be seen. An Air Raid Warden helped us to right the cart and suggested that we take it straight back to Tolworth since the area up ahead was to be cordoned off and there might not be many customers interested in their bread delivery after that.
We were never really sure whether the cart had been toppled by the explosion or by the high centre of gravity of two panicked bread rounds-men within and, thankfully, it was the closest I was to come to real danger from World War 2.

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