大象传媒

Memories of Early Childhood in southeast England during WW2
Tim Aldington
Part 1

What follows is an unstructured selection of memories from my early childhood, unstructured because memories arise spontaneously and not in any particular order. It is better to leave them that way. They exceed the limit of 3000 words so they are in three parts. I was three years old when WW2 began (the so-called 鈥榩honey war鈥� which I don鈥檛 remember), four at the Battle of Britain (which I do remember), six-seven during the North African Campaign, eight at D Day (Normandy Landing), and nine when the war ended. At the outbreak of the war, my mother moved with us (I had 鈥� and still do - a sister, the elder by three years) from St Margarets at Cliffe, Near Dover, to live with her mother and stepfather who had a fairly large house at Sutton, a small village a little further inland from the SE coast of Kent. Our father went off to the war 鈥� more about him later.

The family was protected in a way because my step grandfather (but always like a true grandfather to my sister and me), was a Royal Marine gunner who had fought in WW1. When WW2 broke out, he reenlisted and was put in charge of or had military responsibilities for the Dover garrison and specifically for the two heavy, rail-mounted guns, ex-WW1 battleship guns which were nicknamed Winney & Pooh after the A.A. Milne book. They were housed in tunnels dug into the cliffs close to Dover Castle. One day, late in the war, my sister and were allowed to witness one of them being fired. We stood on what, in prewar times had been the St Margarets at Cliffe village cricket field, close to the broken down pavilion. The gun (Winney or Pooh, I cannot remember which) was silhouetted against the sky beyond the far end of the cricket field, massive on its railway wagon. Various figures were busy about it, its barrel slanted up to the sky and it seemed to be loaded by means of a small crane. Suddenly, most of the figures hurried to the rear, there was an expectant pause and then gun and wagon recoiled quite violently, a puff of smoke appeared at the gun鈥檚 muzzle, followed by a violent explosion and a few more shards of glass fell from the pavilion鈥檚 broken windows. We thought we could see the shell winging on its way to its target although our grandfather was ready to admit that his precious guns were not very accurate. It was more of a demonstration of force than anything. In fact, earlier in the war, the Germans who had more accurate guns, would reply to deadly effect to such demonstrations, generally on Dover town itself as the guns, having performed, would hurriedly retire to the safety of the tunnels dug into the cliffs. It seems that a committee of the unfortunate inhabitants of Dover appealed to my grandfather to limit his interventions as much as possible, or at least to give them some warning which I鈥檓 sure he did.

Our home, that is, our grandfather鈥檚 house, during the first year or two of war became an informal officers鈥� mess or military gathering place. When the threat of invasion receded, from about 1941, the focus of military events moved elsewhere although nearby Dover remained a hot spot throughout. The orchard adjoining the garden was filled with soldiers who lived in Nissin huts which had rounded galvanised iron roofs, sunk into the ground somewhat and surrounded with banks of earth, presumably for blast protection, while the fruit trees were retained for camouflage of an exiguous sort. When the troops where transferred elsewhere after a year or so, the huts were dismantled and removed, leaving behind a fantastic playground for my sister and I, full of mounds (thrilling to bicycle over and along without falling off, at which my sister excelled being older) and threaded by tunnels left behind by the removed drainage system, also exciting to wriggle through without getting claustrophobically stuck, a game at which I was better than my sister as I was smaller. Another game with a variety of troops, generally my grandfather鈥檚 or visitors鈥� drivers 鈥� the resident troops soon learnt their lesson - was to entice them to climb up the fir trees that bordered the entrance drive. We, and especially my sister, could shin up them with ease and down again which was more difficult, but the more cumbrous soldiers frequently would get stuck and earn our scornful mirth and the amused sympathy of their peers, especially if my grandfather or one of his military visitors, emerged from the house looking for their hapless driver caught up a tree.

Sometimes noisy parties were held in the living room, music being provided by a big record player (78 rpm of course) cum wireless and my mother, who was only in her mid 20s, lively and pretty, used to have a great time dancing with the soldiers, some of whom became good family friends but who never stayed for long. I remember that one had a broken leg in plaster and used to lie on the sofa while convalescing. During this time, at the parties he would beat time to the music with his walking stick on the cushions with such vigour that his stick showed signs of breaking. One of the songs was called 鈥楾angerine鈥� and I asked my mother what this referred to being too young to remember the prewar times when such fruit had been available. My sister and I shared in these entertainments because of the sense of happiness they engendered, almost certainly superficial as everyone except my sister and I in that company must have been very worried and apprehensive in those mid summer days following Dunkirk. On another occasion I saw everyone gathered intently examining some photographs which were of Allied prisoners of war from an abortive commando raid on what I think was Dieppe, in which some of our 鈥榞roup鈥� has participated. Presumably the Germans had taken the photographs for propaganda purposes but they also showed who had been captured and therefore at least was still alive. There were the occasional exclamations such 鈥淚sn鈥檛 that George there on the left?鈥� Or 鈥淚 see no sign of Chris at all鈥�. These were sober times, far from partying. Of course, after the debacle of Dunkirk and the fall of France which I don鈥檛 really recall, for some time there were no major military disasters to worry my elders and so, in a way, to affect me. I recall mainly marine disasters such as the sinking of HMS Hood and Ark Royal as well as feats at sea such as the sinking of the German battleship Bismark and, much later, the Tirpitz.

I was fascinated by some of the war pictures shown in the Illustrated London News which was a popular journal of the time, some of them photographs and others drawings. One photograph in particular I recall which was that of the ships of the French fleet scuttled in Toulon harbour: the masts, funnels and guns turrets emerging in disorder from the relatively shallow water. The radio (wireless in those days) was a centre of attention, especially for the news, the occasional speeches of Winston Churchill and, of course, the King鈥檚 Speech (George VI) on Christmas Day. I don鈥檛 remember Churchill鈥檚 鈥淲e shall fight them on the beaches..鈥� speech but I do his later 鈥淭his is not the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the beginning鈥� and the frisson of hopeful excitement that arose on hearing these words that even I could share in.

My sister and I were among the few young children left in East Kent as invasion fears quickly built up following Dunkirk. Most children were evacuated and schools closed or moved also. As a consequence my sister and I had a splendid time, free as air, not going to formal school until after the war was over but from about 1942 attending private lessons given by a retired female teacher, dear Millicent, a WW1 spinster (lost her boyfriend then and never married my sister much later told me), who taught us the 3 Rs plus a smattering of history and geography and a profound love of Shakespeare. We used to bicycle to a neighbouring village where she lived for these lessons which were held in a sort of large furnished shed in a garden.

I don鈥檛 recall being often frightened. I think fear came as I became older and more aware of what could happen. My mother and grandmother were very good at not showing fear and my grandfather was a professional soldier who, when he was at home, rarely if ever deigned to climb into or rather under the big iron shelter erected in the dining room. The only person who showed fear to an embarrassing extent, was a visiting uncle who, at the first air raid alarm, plunged into the shelter pushing us all aside. The shelter, called a Morrison, was a massive iron table, at least as big as a full size billiard table, with stout legs made of angle iron, a solid top and metal grill sides. When not used as a shelter, it served well as a spacious dining table, one which we could climb onto in times of play, without our mother complaining to us about damaging it. The theory was that if the house was bombed, it could support the weight of the rubble until you were rescued. Fortunately this was never put to the test, not by us at least. A couple of mattresses and some cushions and blankets were kept there and when the siren went off, situated somewhere nearby I never discovered where, we had to get out of bed and crawl into it, with the adults sitting around, chatting and drinking tea, until either the 鈥榓ll clear鈥� sounded or nearby thumps and bangs would indicate that they should join us. But this was rare in fact because we were quite isolated in the countryside and so not near a useful military target. Only later with the coming of the V1s (flying bombs or buzz bombs or doodle bugs- they had a variety of names) from around early 1944, did we have to take the air raid warnings more seriously because although these mechanical horrors were aimed mostly at London, 60-70 miles further north, sometimes they would breakdown or go astray and the very distinctive popping sound of the motor would suddenly cease, to be followed by a long, expectant silence and then a startling thump, but generally far off. Sometimes, they failed to explode at all. But one never knew. But mostly for my sister and I, these nocturnal events were an opportunity to resume playing, usually with a large array of fictional characters we had invented and we would chatter away until either we fell asleep or we stumbled or were carried back up to bed when the 鈥榓ll clear siren had sounded. While on the V1s, I only saw one in daytime, flying quite high but easily visible, on its fast and menacingly purposeful way, with stubby wings and its propelling motor and exhaust nozzle mounted above the fuselage. An Allied fighter, a Spitfire I think, was in hot pursuit but not noticeably catching up with it. In fact even the latest models of fighters could only catch up the V1 by diving on it from a height. They very quickly disappeared from view. It was said, probably incorrectly, that some pilots had succeeded in sliding a wingtip under that of the buzz bomb and so sending it off course over the North Sea or even back over the Channel. It was a nice idea if true.

Apart from the V1s which fortunately came much later in the war, we had one big scare which was when, one evening in around 1941, a German bomber, either through loss of nerve on the part of the crew or for other reasons, decided to drop a massive bomb or land mine in the middle of the countryside, which fell uncomfortably close to the house. My mother had gone to the cinema in nearby Deal and I don鈥檛 recall my grandfather being there but my grandmother was. Fortunately my bedroom was on the unexposed side of the house and, conscious of my mother鈥檚 absence I suppose, I had awoken and started crying. So my sister, whose bedroom was on the other side, came to see and calm me. Just then, unannounced by any air raid warning, there was a sound of an aeroplane followed by an enormous thump. The whole house trembled from the shock wave and we heard broken glass falling from the windows. My sister鈥檚 bed was covered in broken glass as her bedroom was on the exposed side of the house and if she had been there she could have been seriously injured. Our grandmother rushed in and hastily bundled us into the shelter 鈥� better late than never 鈥� by which time the air raid siren was sounding and shortly after my mother arrived, very worried but relieved to find us all uninjured. She had left the cinema when she had heard the explosion which was easily audible in Deal and had become increasingly worried as she approached the house because the air raid wardens and home guards were stumbling around in increasing numbers the nearer she came to the house. Fortunately the bomb/mine had fallen into a nearby empty field where it had excavated a hole 鈥渂ig enough to bury a bungalow鈥� as some onlooker remarked. Later we were allowed to have a look at the hole and wondered at the narrow escape we had had. There was an amusing follow up, because the next morning my grandmother laughingly described how the neighbouring farmer who supplied us with milk (delicious channel island milk in glass bottles) had just come and said 鈥淥h good so you are alright. I thought you had copped it last night. I鈥檇 better go and get your milk then.鈥�

We had two other, less important incidents. The first was quite early in the war when the Germans were still making daylight air raids. It was the day when Canterbury which was about 10 miles from our house, was bombed. We were all sitting out on the lawn having afternoon tea in the summer sunshine. Suddenly we heard the noise of an approaching plane, flying very low it seemed, and lo and behold, a German bomber burst into view flying at tree top level and flew right over us. It was the two-engine bomber with an entirely glazed nose (it was a Heinkel He 111 I discovered much later) and the pilot and bomb aimer who sat right in front and below him, were perfectly visible. Perhaps they were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. My grandfather leapt up and ran across the lawn ineffectually shaking his fist at them while calling for his driver to take him back to Dover. We hastily gathered up the tea things and ran inside and shortly after we heard loud thumps from the direction of Canterbury accompanied by the better-late-than-never air raid sirens.

The second incident was when my sister and I with our mother were cycling back home one afternoon, perhaps back from our lessons with dear Millicent or shopping, I don鈥檛 remember. We were close to home on a rising stretch of road through fields and exposed to the prevailing west wind: the little sting in the tail of our regular homeward trip. Again, without warning, we heard the frontal approach of a low flying plane, a fighter plane we saw as it came into view. Without hesitation, my mother swept us both off our bicycles and into the roadside ditch as the plane, which was a German one, swept low over us. That was quite frightening although the pilot didn鈥檛 shoot perhaps because he didn鈥檛 see us in time or was too much of a 鈥榞entleman鈥� to shoot up exposed civilians. Who knows? Anyway, he roared away towards the sea and we retrieved our scattered bicycles and belongings and pedalled home as fast as we could.

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