大象传媒

SEVEN BROTHERS LEFT AND SEVEN RETURNED AND I HONOUR THEM HERE.
CHARLES IVES - Middlesex regiment and Home Guard.
HARRY IVES - Norfolk Regiment.
JOHN IVES - Royal Fusiliers.
JAMES IVES - 3rd. RHA.
WILLIAM IVES - Royal Engineers.
ANDREW IVES - Parachute Regiment.
WALTER FREDERICK IVES (author).

IN THE early days of World War 2 my mate Snake and I were watching a newsreel in the Odeon cinema, Godalming. The sight of defenceless French refugees being bombed and machine-gunned by the Luftwaffe made our blood boil. Amidst the boos and occasional swear words from the rest of the cinema audience we turned to each other and said - 鈥渨e鈥檙e not having this are we!鈥� The sense of fair play had been instilled in us by our school teachers, University men, some from Oxford and Cambridge, most of whom had served in World War 1.

IT WASN鈥橳 long before the opportunity to hit back had arrived, we thought. A wireless announcement requested volunteers to join a new defence force named the LDV (Local Defence Volunteers) later translated into LOOKED DUCKED AND VANISHED by the wits or half-wits. What鈥檚 in a name? Snake and I hot-footed it down to the police station to sign on. Typical of those bygone days, nobody knew anything about the LDV until eventually a detective sauntered into the front office and with a voice of authority asked, 鈥渨hat鈥檚 going on?鈥� When LDV was mentioned he said he had just heard about it on the wireless. He then instructed us to report to a Mr. Stovold. We knew Mr. Stovold , a farmer and Master of Fox Hounds and duly reported to him. Invited into the farmhouse we settled down with our drinks of nice cool water and waited for our briefing with baited breath. (We had walked three miles from the police station to the farmhouse). The briefing went something like this:
US. What do you want us to do?
HIM. Look for parachutists and fifth columnists.
US. What do we do if we see any of them?
HIM. Tell the police.
US. When do we get our guns?
HIM. No! There are no guns. Just tie a white handkerchief round your arms and cut a couple of stout poles from one of my hedges.
End of briefing. Pity because the LDV was the forerunner of the Home Guard so Snake and I blew our chances of becoming the first recruits in Godalming Home Guard.

THINGS WERE pretty quiet on both the Western Front and the Home Front. We were eighteen years old, bored and frustrated. I shall use the collective we as opposed to the Royal we because old Snake and I were inseparable. We took up highly paid work helping to build an army camp for the Canadians. The camp was sited in the same place that housed the Canadians in World War 1. After trying a couple of uninteresting jobs we teamed up with an old chap who was a pipe-laying expert. He was a fierce old character who had no respect for foremen or bosses. Built like an ox he intimidated most people on the camp site. However, we discovered his sense of humour and after a couple of days we had him roaring with laughter. Working in the fresh air was pleasant enough but we still got bored and several times old Snake would twist the throttle on our old B.S.A. motor-bike and we would roar past the camp and head for Portsmouth to inspect the Royal Navy. Then came another wireless announcement. The War Office requested young men of eighteen years old to volunteer for service in the Young Soldiers Battalions.

AFTER A few enquiries it wasn鈥檛 long before we were reporting to, of all places, Trinity Church, Guildford. Remember the old music-hall song, IN TRINITY CHURCH I MET ME DOOM? Having signed on, given the oath of allegiance to the King and accepted the King鈥檚 Shilling, i.e. a day鈥檚 pay for a soldier, we were told to report to Willems Barracks, Aldershot, in about a weeks time. How did one spend a week鈥檚 holiday in 1940? Well, the first thing we did was to say farewell to our old pipe-layer pal. Then we would start our days with a long lie-in, followed by a leisurely wash, followed by a leisurely breakfast. The decent June weather meant we were able to put the old BEEZER to good use with trips to the seaside and countryside. Alcohol held no appeal for us but we did enjoy a decent cup of tea. Therefore, in those far-off days of innocence and naivet茅 alas now long gone, we enjoyed a visit to roadside tearooms. The old B.S.A. would be carefully parked amongst the baby Austins, Morris Minors, Standard 8鈥檚 and 10鈥檚 etc., then we would enter the tea room to take tea with the clientele (mostly middle-aged middle-class ladies). We enjoyed the ritual of taking tea, such as the grand entrance, the polite nod to ladies sipping their tea, the patient wait for service, the friendly smile for the waitress, the quiet debate as to who should pour, the little finger extended whilst drinking, the tip (usually tuppence) left under a plate and finally, 鈥淭hank you so much鈥�, as we left. We were fans of Laurel and Hardy and we copied some of their mannerisms on social occasions.

EVENTUALLY THE time came to report for military duty. Just as well because funds were running low and we had switched from smoking Passing Cloud cigarettes back to Weights and Woodbines. After a couple of bus rides we duly reported for duty. Typical of Britain engaged in a World War nobody seemed to know anything about a newly formed Young Soldiers Battalion. At last one clued-up officer directed us to a cavalry barracks where he thought new recruits were mustering. We found the cookhouse first, top priority to two eighteen to nineteen year olds. The cooks, all veterans of the 14/18 War, were relaxing after a long stint over hot ovens. They were dressed in black overalls and black chef鈥檚 hats with patches of white here and there. Correction - the overalls were actually white but had become almost blackened by the cooks when stoking the ovens with coal and then being worn in the smoky, sooty atmosphere. When we finally spotted the cooks, literally by the whites of their eyes, they greeted us in chorus with, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e too late for dinner!鈥� Dinner you鈥檒l notice, not lunch. Each well camouflaged cook was wearing a nicotine-stained moustache over a soggy cigarette in his mouth. They did finally let us have a go at some cold, unsweetened custard in a large container. The only utensils on offer were the large ladles with which the custard was served. So we survived our first meal in the army.

AFTER A couple of days chatting in the barrack room and welcoming newcomers who drifted in, some singly, others accompanied by mates, we were told by a Corporal Piner that, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e in the army now and I鈥檓 going to see that you start acting like soldiers.鈥� He put the wind up us, or thought he did. On our very first night he informed us he was going out for the evening and when he returned he expected the place to be dead quiet with everyone fast asleep. He returned, the place was dead quiet until he sat upon his bed. The bed collapsed with an almighty crash, the corporal was swearing blue murder, some blokes were shouting, 鈥淚 want my Mum,鈥� others were shouting, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 that nasty man shouting about?鈥� The place did quieten down after a while and we all got a few hours sleep. We were given a few hours drill the next day but didn鈥檛 mind that because it helped to ease the boredom.

THE WEEKS passed and we became trained enough to go on guard with a loaded rifle and fifty rounds of ammunition. Snake and I were guarding a Royal Ordnance Store when we were warned to expect a visit from the Colonel and the RSM. They duly arrived and were challenged, then saluted. I noticed the Colonel held his head to one side as he spoke and he also had a tic in one eye. Then I noticed Snake was holding his head to one side and winking as he answered the Colonel鈥檚 questions. The RSM鈥檚 face was purple and a big fat vein was pulsating in his neck. After our visitors had gone I said to Snake, 鈥淲hat the hell were you winking at that old boy for?鈥�

WE SOON learned that the carrot and stick method was being used to lick us into shape. Our officers and NCO鈥檚 were all WW1 veterans and for a time acted like Dutch uncles to us. One old Sergeant named Turner almost cracked under the strain of trying to train us. He tried to work his ticket. The medics arrived one day to take him to hospital. They placed him on a stretcher and carried him to the door of the hut. Once through the door a short, steep flight of steps had to be negotiated. This was far too much for poor old 鈥淕ranny鈥� Turner. He said, 鈥淛ust a minute lads鈥�, then climbed off the stretcher, walked down the steps, waited for the medics, climbed back on the stretcher and was placed in the ambulance. On another occasion one other Sergeant named Sid Perkiss was cleaning his revolver, a souvenir from the Great War. It wasn鈥檛 long before, showing off, he loaded the revolver. With a bit more teasing and cajoling it wasn鈥檛 much longer before the revolver was fired, accidentally. The bullet passed safely through the wooden wall of the hut. Poor old Sid. He wanted this incident to be soon forgotten. Tut! Tut! Accidental discharge of a firearm by a senior NCO! We of course, wanted to turn the drama into a comedy. A couple of blokes were rolling about on the floor muttering, 鈥淵ou got me Sarge鈥�, others were shouting, 鈥淚 want me muvver鈥�, somebody else shouted, 鈥淥oh me head! I can鈥檛 stand loud bangs鈥�. There were no officers in camp so Sid got away with perforating the wall of the hut. However, he wanted his revenge on us. This took the form of long sessions of strenuous drill. The time came when we had had enough and the message went through the ranks, 鈥淢uck him about鈥�. We purposely became sloppy and on the order, 鈥淎bout turn!鈥� only half the squad turned about. This meant two sections of the squad were marching away from each other. The order was frantically repeated and the two sections were marching towards each other until they met with a clatter of falling rifles and bayonets and a clutter of prostrate bodies. There endeth drill for the day.

WE HAD an occasional taste of war whilst we were at Aldershot. A Messerschmitt bombed the town centre and dropped a bomb about twenty yards from a bus on which we were travelling back to camp. Then one night we had to man the pill-boxes, expecting a German invasion after an ammunition train mysteriously blew up in Tongham goods yard, near Aldershot. The carrot method of training, or taming the Young Soldiers, was coming to an end. The stick method was being slowly introduced to tame the lads from good homes like Snake and myself, public schoolboys, boys from large country houses, Borstal boys and lads from training ships. One day we were suddenly ordered to pack up and be ready to move. We boarded a train at a military siding and, after a long meandering journey, ended up in Devon.

OUR FIRST job was guarding an RAF station near Exeter. The aerodrome had taken a terrific pounding from the Luftwaffe and the Young Soldiers from whom we took over were severely traumatised. We slept in tents in a cider apple orchard on the edge of the aerodrome. Conditions were damp, dreary and boring. We couldn鈥檛 even eat the apples. They looked so deliciously rosy but were so bitter they made your teeth curl. The only item of interest concerning Exeter was Snake鈥檚 marriage. He married a local girl after a whirlwind courtship, much against my advice and the advice of a lot of our mates. It was whilst Snake was on active service in Africa or Italy that his mother, accompanied by an old friend, had to attend at the Old Bailey to get the marriage annulled. Our next move was to Teignmouth, a pretty little town even in wartime. Not that we had time for the finer things in life. The stick was being wielded with greater vigour. Our old officers and NCO鈥檚 were being replaced by younger types who had evidently been told to tighten up discipline. A button undone, or even a look of defiance, could merit a charge. We could put up with the extra duties awarded as punishment but nearly mutinied when they started stopping a day or two鈥檚 pay. One new corporal took over a platoon near us vowing, 鈥淚 will soon sort this shower out鈥�. The next day his nice shiny bayonet and nice shiny scabbard went missing. Also most of the kit from his kit-bag went missing, although the kit-bag was heavily padlocked. Some nasty soldiers just cut the bottom off his kit-bag. Our days were spent peeling potatoes, training and for some of us, stringing a few miles of barbed wire along the coast and across the farmers fields. I was in charge of one wiring party and we were bitten to pieces by midgies on a boggy piece of land near the sea. We reported sick en masse and were just painted round our necks and wrists with a bright yellow antiseptic and told to get back to work, with the midgies. Once or twice a week our nights were taken up with guard duties. One place we guarded was a naval signal office situated in a hotel. This was cushy and just night guard i.e. dusk to dawn. The other place was grim. A 24 hour guard on our Battalion HQ. During the daylight hours you could feel the eyes on you from the RSM鈥檚 office. If you squirmed just a little he would yell, 鈥淪tand still!鈥� I hated that bloke more than I hated any Jerry. One morning, about 5 a.m. there I am outside Battalion HQ thinking, 鈥淚鈥檒l soon be finished my guard duty鈥�, when a Jerry bomber roared overhead. It was very low and the crew could be clearly seen. The plane flew out to sea then flew back inland then flew out to sea again. Just as he flew over the pier he dropped a bomb, the last one left over from Plymouth I suppose. He missed but not a soul amongst the military, except me of course, heard or saw anything of this incident.

THE DISCIPLINE was becoming so strict some of the lads actually deserted. I was doing a couple of days in regimental detention, with several others, when a chap named Crittall was returned to detention after being discharged from hospital. He鈥檇 had his appendix removed and now all he wanted to do was to remove himself from the army. When old Crittall firmly convinced us that he wanted out, we got to work preparing for his escape. There was a drop of about twenty feet from the back of the house in which we were ensconced. We tied a large number of blankets end to end, the large knots making it reasonably safe for the escapee to negotiate the gap twixt window sill and ground level. A quick whip round produced a few pennies, one sixpence, a few sweets, a few cigarettes and one curly sandwich. Accepting our largess gracefully, old Crittall descended the knotted blankets, oh so slowly, (remember his tender appendicitis scar), then with a cheerful wave he was off. We never saw him again. He was a Londoner and, apart from the blitz, we all wished him a peaceful war. There was an enquiry into Crittall鈥檚 disappearance and threats of dire consequences for aiders and abettors but, as we were all exhausted with potato peeling and extra duties, we had slept the sleep of the just and couldn鈥檛 help with the enquiry.

THE NEXT place in the West Country to be honoured by our company was Plymouth. We were still the first line of defence for poor old England and in our spare time we were responsible for guarding an airfield used by Spitfires. The field, and it was a field, with bumps and tufts of long grass, was too short for Spitfires to land safely. Inevitably there were crashes, a couple of them fatal. Conditions for us were really grim,. We were near the edge of Dartmoor and it was a real winter, the wild ponies used to raid people鈥檚 gardens looking for food. Our billet was a cold church hall complete with organ. A few wooden gates and sections of fencing went missing, the evidence destroyed on our inefficient stove. The organ and the stove were instrumental in getting old Sergeant Granny Turner his ticket. Most chaps answering a call of nature in the wee small hours would invariably scare poor old Turner by playing a few chords on the organ. The hall was absolutely pitch dark at night, the Sarge slept by the stove, and the stove was a reference point for revellers returning from Plymouth. Consequently Sarge was repeatedly trodden upon in the wee small hours. Lack of sleep, frayed nerves and his age all helped get him his discharge. Give him his due, the old boy thanked us and wished us well before he left for Civvy Street.

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