大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War website by Julia Shuvalova for GMR Actiondesk on behalf of Derek Roger Hilton and has been added with his permission. The author is fully aware of the terms and conditions of the site.

I was fifteen years old in 1939 when the Second World War was declared. I was an art student at the Royal Salford College of Art, doing well in all subjects - Maths, History, French, etc, as at any normal Secondary School, with Art as the main subject - having passed a scholarship at my junior school, Broomhouse Lane, the oldest school in Salford, now sadly demolished. It was situated near Hope Hospital.

Some of the art students chose to be evacuated to Ulverston or Lancaster. I decided to take my chances at home and left college with a good reference from the Head. I took my samples in design, silk screen printing and sign writing, everything I had learned in my time at Art School, and with my mother did the rounds of Commercial Art Studios in Manchester, only to be told they wouldn鈥檛 be taking anyone on because of the war.

Bitterly disappointed, I had to find a job and did so at the Manchester Guardian and Evening News on Cross Street, where I started in the counting house and later the cash office.

I joined the Civil Defence with my pals Fred Seal, Wilkie, Ken Kearnes, Doug Pepper and others. XII Post was in a big house on Park Road, it had attics and cellars. Someone had to be on duty every night on a rota system. I couldn鈥檛 stay overnight until I was sixteen. There was a Group Warden and deputy Group Warden (two of the wealthiest men in the district); Sector Wardens, who had white helmets and wardens under their control; plus about ten boy messengers who supplied their own bikes! Later, girl messengers joined. A bugle band was formed, lessons were given to those who needed them. I was already having lessons on the cornet from a neighbour, Mr Walters, who was a member of Salford Police Band. I had a second hand cornet with a dent in it!

Another neighbour of ours in Venesta Avenue, Mr Allen, was a trumpeter in the Squadronairs, the famous R.A.F. band. He was previously a compositor at the Guardian and got a commission in the R.A.F. Incidentally, I was about to take the apprenticeship for compositor myself but again the timing was unfortunate when again such apprenticeships were stopped for the duration of the war. It was always considered one of the best-paid jobs in the newspaper business.

Mr Allen used to come to our house and give me advice on the trumpet. On a couple of occasions the bugle band marched round the streets of Salford on parade, formed from volunteers from the various Civil Defence posts and included drums. Music was very much part of my life and came easily to me. Mother played the piano, Dad played the violin. I could play things like 鈥淯nder the Double Eagle鈥�, Sousa marches and 鈥淚 Dreamt I Dwelt in the Marble Halls鈥� 鈥� my party piece!

I think I was very fortunate. Another neighbour, Mr Mortimer, was related to Harry Mortimer, the celebrated brass band conductor. Members of the Halle Orchestra often came round to Mr and Mrs Mortimer鈥檚 house. I remember two young cellists being there. Mr Mortimer often got me to whistle classical music for them (wish I could manage it now!). I realised a long time ago that my life went in the wrong direction. As a child I was always mad about classical music and used to listen to it on the wireless. It has been a lifelong joy to me.

The Free Trade Hall, home of the Halle Orchestra, was bombed early in the war and I went to their concerts all through the conflict in some unusual venues - Belle Vue mainly, also in a cinema in Stretford and a hall in Stockport. A long time after the end of the war, they were still performing in the King鈥檚 Hall, Belle Vue until the Free Trade Hall was rebuilt.

In XII we had a kitchen and a table tennis table, where I got hooked on the game. Mr Mitchell, a Sector Warden, had twin sons who had played for England some years before. We had some great games and, without boasting, I did thrash them frequently.

Before reaching the age of 16, junior messenger were given all the menial tasks 鈥� counting equipment and making tea for the wardens. As an art student I was given the job of painting the W in white on the tin helmets of the wardens, also the colour coded boards which indicated the state of the raids 鈥� i.e. where the bombers were heading. This information was received by phone first and put up on the board. I also made one for another post.

We boys were looking forward to taking a more active part. The sirens used to sound just after tea when it went dark early and then we reported to the post. On reaching the age of 16, we spent most nights there, playing table tennis, chess and boxing - myself and another messenger had boxing gloves.

If we received a purple warning it meant that the bombers were heading for Manchester or Liverpool. We went out looking for lights carelessly showing from houses and told the residents to 鈥減ut that light out鈥�! Or even broke in to black it out; although in retrospect, how much that deterred the enemy is doubtful, as the bombers often followed railway lines and canals to their targets at Trafford Park, Salford Docks and Berry Wiggins, the oil refinery that came into my patch.

On the corner of Stott Lane there was a phone box surrounded by sand bags - fortunately, as on several occasions bombs dropped all around us as we sheltered on the floor of that 鈥渓ucky phone box鈥�.

During the Manchester and Salford Blitz, Berry Wiggins received a direct hit 鈥� everything was burning, the oil tanks blown up. Wardens, messengers and lorry drivers were helpless as it burned. The bombers came back, we were caught in the illuminations and one of the enemy aircraft gunned us as we threw ourselves on the ground near a low stone wall. A man next to me was hit; he showed me his leg 鈥� you could see through the hole! I didn鈥檛 feel frightened, just excited.

Hope Hospital nearby was hit. We ran there and climbed over the wall and put sandbags on the incendiary bombs 鈥� some now had explosives, and we were taught to count so many seconds before dealing with them. We had fire training in a purpose built bungalow in Broughton.

If there was an air raid in your area, you were expected to get out of bed and report to your post. Some nights I was up all night, working of course next day, and expected to do fire watching on a rota at the Manchester Guardian on the roof where we had no protection ourselves. We were however, taught to use a hose.

At one point of the Blitz, Hope Hospital was hit by a land mine. The Superintendent, a neighbour of ours, was never found, not even his watch was found. Nurses and patients were killed, the nurses鈥� home demolished. At that time a barrage balloon was stationed at the corner of Stott Lane, and one night whilst I was on my bike in the vicinity, the balloon hurtled to the ground, cable and all. Another lucky escape, as I crouched down near a wall. It was shot down at other times also.

Another incident happened when Doug Pepper and I were sitting on the wall above the railway line on Stott Lane. The next day a 2,000lb bomb was discovered and made safe by the army. Doug Pepper and I were messenger partners. He was slightly older than me and joined the R.A.F. earlier than I did. We were boys doing men鈥檚 work. In the early days of the war we put out incendiary bombs 鈥� sandbags were best. We found that the stirrup pumps we were issued with were useless. Young boys and girls, old men and those medically unfit to serve in the forces made up the Home Guard and Civil Defence.

My parents saw little of me, except at meal times and, whenever I could I went home to see my Mother and Dad in the Anderson shelter in our garden to tell them of the 鈥榮tate of play鈥�. Often, Dad would be away himself, being a British Rail locomotive driver, hazardous in wartime. He had many hairy moments. Dad had served in France in the 1914-18 war and had been in all the major battles 鈥� the Somme at Ypres and in the notorious Houge trenches.

Mother must have been worried sick during these days. Sometimes our neighbours shared our shelter and Dad鈥檚 relatives from Trafford Road came when things got too hot near the docks. I remember they spent the Christmas of the Blitz with us and even managed to buy a chicken from Joe Binn鈥檚 grocer鈥檚 shop on Eccles Old Road. It would be a quick dash in and out to cook it during the air raids.

Mother was a member of the W.R.V.S. (Women鈥檚 Royal Voluntary Service) based at Hope Church (St. James鈥檚) on Eccles Old Road and was also a member of the Mother鈥檚 Union. Dad gave assistance to the A.R.P. as well as fire watching on the railway.

Mother鈥檚 relatives lived in Leicester and we visited them as often as possible, travelling by rail. On one return journey, as we approached Manchester, we got caught up in a raid. The train stopped on the main line, anti-aircraft guns in a field near the line opened fire, shattering the train windows. The train was full of troops and they told us to get down on the floor, which we did and hoped for the best. The anti-aircraft guns were sadly ineffective against enemy aircraft. Needless to say, Dad was distraught waiting for our return. Communication was almost impossible; few people had phones, and telegrams were sent for urgent messages and rarely held good news. We eventually continued to a small station where we had to leave the train and make our own way home. We had a long walk and three buses later we safely arrived home.

It wasn鈥檛 all horror, though. Whenever I could have a weekend off, my friends and I from the Y.H.A. club in Monton, near Eccles, met up and happy, carefree weekends were spent cycling and hiking in Derbyshire, North Wales and the Lake District.

There were about twenty of us, sometimes more and sometimes less. Some of us would meet at the bottom of Lancaster Road, others met up in Monton and we would all join together at the Youth Hostel. As I worked for the newspaper, I often had to work on a Saturday, but one or two of my pals, like Pete Gibbons or Wilkie, would wait for me.

Hostelling was a great escape from the war, and we had some wonderful times. Today鈥檚 hostels are more like hotels, but personally I wouldn鈥檛 change my hostelling days for today鈥檚 鈥榮oft touch鈥�! One hostel in particular I remember with affection and humour 鈥� 鈥榃indgather鈥� near Whaley Bridge in Derbyshire. As its name suggests, it was extremely isolated. It caught the wind so much that if you had the misfortune to sleep in one of the top bunks you had to hold onto the corrugated roof by the handles provided for the purpose, and consequently, had little sleep. Outside the hostel were rocks that provided nursery climbs and where I started rock climbing. I still have the ropes.

Meals were provided by ourselves and sometimes a concoction was made when several of us would put all our ingredients into one pan. With young healthy appetites, it tasted good to us. The hostel meals were excellent and only cost 1/6d (7 陆p). It was 6d (2 陆p) for a sleeping bag, not the duvet kind, just a cotton inner bag to use under the blanket allocated to you. My pal Geoff Thompson used to go round, taking them off sleeping hostellers to put on his own bed!

The evenings were great, playing games and dancing to the popular songs. Myself, Ivan Wyatt, Alan Midgley and Johnny Mitchell formed a quartet and entertained our fellow hostellers with popular cowboy songs and the songs sung by the Ink Spots. My Mother made me a pair of 鈥榗haps鈥� from a rug and stitched them to a pair of my trousers, cowboy style. We sang a Y.H.A. dances in the Manchester area. Once we were approached by a man who said we should 鈥榤ake a disc鈥�. We were pretty good. I had been a choirboy at St. James鈥� Church, Hope and had been entered in the City of Salford Juvenile Music Festival by my school teacher at Broom House Lane School in 1937, held at Salford Royal Technical College, now Salford University, where I came third.

About this time I saw an advert in a magazine 鈥� 鈥淭each Yourself Morse Code in an Hour鈥�. I sent away for the instructions and made the kit out of a cigar box and a bought tapper. It sounded highly improbable, but I did learn to send Morse messages in an hour. Another messenger got interested and he made one too. We used to sit in separate rooms sending messages to one another.

I was desperate to join up. Doug Pepper was the first of our crowd to go into the R.A.F. Fred Seal went into the Navy. I wanted to join the R.A.F. as a wireless operator/gunner and on my 16th birthday I went to the R.A.F. recruiting office in Manchester. I tried to alter the date on my birth certificate, but it didn鈥檛 fool the recruitment officer who told me to come back in a year! Life continued as before, working during the day, fire watching on the roof at the Manchester Guardian.

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