大象传媒

Commenced 4th May 1995. Edited October 2005
WAR YEARS REMEMBERED
Part 1

Introduction.

As we approach the 50th Anniversary of VE Day, and while cutting the grass last night (inevitably at the time of year), my thoughts turned to my memories of the War. At first I concluded that as a youngster who had spent the war in the small country town of Stamford in Lincolnshire, any memories would not be of exciting events, or danger, or really of much interest. As time went by, more and more memories flashed back, again nothing exciting, or certainly not exciting to anyone living in a major city during the Blitz for example. Nevertheless, I decided to write down the memories that did and do flash back. Because new flashbacks occur as I write, this will mean that maybe from time to time I will add to the list.

At the beginning of the war I was 7 years old, on VE day I was close to 13 years old. Those years and many years after were years of shortage, of almost everything. Inability to obtain food, clothes, sports goods, cars, bicycles, toys, sweets, petrol (presumably no motor mowers could be used!) etc. Shortage that must seem inconceivable to today鈥檚 youth, or the generation born in the late 50鈥檚 and after. Yet I have no memories of feeling denied, no memories of wanting things, no real memories of going hungry or of wishing for this, that or the other foodstuff. I suppose ignorance was bliss, and really I did not know what I was missing. What the eyes can鈥檛 see anywhere, the heart etc. I did not know what I had missed until I went to Canada on RAF aircrew training in 1951, there I saw shops etc bulging with goods which made my eyes stand out! Late 1951 and the availability and choice of goods in England was still very limited, I discovered.

First Memories.

So, to those memories, which will not be in chronological order, but a random collection of flashbacks.

I suppose the earliest must be (until I remember something else) from autumn 1939, just before or just after the war was declared. We were on holiday, we I assume being my Father and Mother Brother and me. One evening, after dark I looked down from my hotel bedroom window - on the front? at Cromer? My window was at the side of the hotel but gave a view up a busy (for those days of comparatively few cars) road. I noticed something different with car headlights. They were cowled or hooded with slots cut into a mask to reduce the light and minimise the 鈥榯hrow鈥� of light upwards. I remember asking my parents what and why, I do not remember their answer, but it was probably something to do with Air Raid precautions, so presumably I knew we were at war.

Back in Stamford, and early in the war, my Brother and I with our Aunt got permission to climb the steps inside the steeple of All Saints Church. I wanted to take some photos from that vantagepoint. Film was scarce even at that time, but I obviously had some for my treasured Box Brownie. While looking down over Stamford and Red Lion Square, what seemed to us to be a large Army convoy drove through. Immediately we, of course, decided that the invasion of UK must have started. My Grandmother, who lived with my Aunt near by, was undoubtedly informed of our exciting news, as was our Mother on our return home. All were very sceptical, but the next few News bulletins were listened to with extra attention. At a later stage in the war, I was told that at that time, a number of well equipped Army convoys were assembled, and driven round the country to give the population a feeling of security.
P.S. I have found some of the photos!

I am not sure if I have real memories from the time of Dunkirk. I like to think that the story of the little ships first entered my memory at the time; but as it has been told so many times since then, and is now almost folklore, I cannot be certain when I really learned of that glorious defeat.

Aeroplanes dominated attention in the early war days, as they did throughout the war in a country town in Lincolnshire. Airfields sprang up all over that flat county and it鈥檚 neighbours. The sky was seldom empty during the day, and most if not all schoolboys became expert at aircraft recognition.

One memorable weekend the Home Guard were exercised in a 鈥楧efence of Stamford鈥� action. Two vivid memories leap out from that weekend.

Returning from church on the Sunday morning and walking up Empingham Road, I noticed some shrubbery moving on the other side of a stone wall bordering the path we were on. As we drew level with the twitching shrubs, a line of Home Guard popped their heads and shrubbery decorated helmets above the wall. One told me, in a very serious tone of voice, not to stare at him, as it would show the 鈥楪ermans鈥� where he was! I thought it great fun, but even at that age reckoned that his comment was daft. I can see his face now.

That Sunday was a glorious warm sunny clear blue day, and the air was filled with the sound of defending, or were they attacking, aircraft, no one seemed to know. They were Spitfires from RAF Wittering. The sound of gunfire was also frequently heard, well not really, as ammunition, even blanks were not available. Attackers and defenders fired their guns; wooden or real, by pulling bunches of 鈥榩ull crackers鈥� as used in Christmas crackers. These were attached together in a long line, folded up into a bunch with a piece of string at each end. One end of the string was tied to the 鈥榞un鈥� and when the enemy approached the other end was pulled vigorously; this pulled several 鈥榗rackers鈥� and the gun was then reloaded by tying the string onto the tail of the first unpulled cracker in the bunch.

The second vivid memory is of Spitfires. The RAF had a fabulous day, low flying restrictions over the Town were lifted and did the pilots take advantage of that fact. Many in the adult population were terrified as aircraft from RAF Wittering skimmed the rooftops; we thought it absolutely super. Two Spitfires presumably attacking, or possibly supporting the Home Guard at the front of our house, came in at roof top height. My Brother and I were watching the air action from the back garden, and I have an indelible picture memory of the first aircraft pulling up over the roof of our house into that blue blue sky with a roar, and so so close.

At about the same period, while out on a Sunday afternoon walk, we saw ahead of us and fairly low, a Spitfire (or possibly a Hurricane) trailing smoke and heading across the Welland valley towards RAF Wittering. It was descending slowly and I remember saying 鈥淭here鈥檚 something wrong鈥�. We watched as it continued to loose height and, unable to make it over the crest of the only high ground between it and the airfield, it crashed into the hillside on the other side of the valley. In horror we saw it immediately burst into flames after impact with the ground. At the time we were right outside a friend of the family鈥檚 home and within 30 seconds were on the **** to the Fire Station. We were not the first to call. In some desperation and misery, we sought news of the pilot during the next few days. We eventually heard that he had been taken to Stamford hospital badly burned, and I believe died shortly afterwards.

The blackout was a cause of an incident that still makes me shudder somewhat when I recall it. Yells from Air Raid Wardens of 鈥淧ut that light out鈥� did occur when the blackout of windows etc was not adequate, and persistent offenders were prosecuted. Usually a knock on the door and polite advice that the blackout was not good enough were the more usual result of an Air Raid Warden鈥檚 check. With little traffic and no streetlights, the streets were pitch black on cloudy moonless nights. Many scrapes, bruises, and twisted ankles resulted, not from attack by muggers etc they were unheard of. I walked alone or with my Brother a mile or so to and from school as did most pupils. Our parents would not have given a thought that any harm would come to us. It just did not; children were safe on the streets and out in the countryside.

I must have been 9 or maybe 10 years old when on one dark winter night I left the school after a rehearsal for a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. I had walked the route dozens of times and set off down the slope of the road at the back of the school. It was pitch black, but apparently confident in my route I did not 鈥榝eel鈥� my way forward. The next thing I remember was that I was on the ground, and not on my feet. At first I had no idea where I was, or what had happened to me. I had no torch with me (batteries were difficult to obtain) and after collecting my, terrified by then, thoughts and feeling around, I concluded that I had walked straight into the side of a house. I could not even see the outline of the building, or of the school behind me. Eventually I worked out where I thought I was and groped my way towards where the wall should turn to the front of the house. It did, so I knew where I was, and even now can feel the relief that now I was no longer lost. I could not see a foot in front of my face, but I knew where I was. At that stage I realised that my face hurt, and it was bleeding from somewhere, or was that terrified sweat? I believe the house was empty, not even a tiny chink of light, so I decided to find my way to my Grandmother and Aunt鈥檚 home some half a mile or so away. Where there was a path with a kerb, I walked one foot on the path and one in the gutter, feeling my way forward. Where no kerb, I moved over to the hedge, fence or wall on the other side of the path, stopping frequently to make sure I was keeping track of where I was. How long that half-mile journey took me I cannot imagine! Eventually I reached the target front door, and the expression on my Aunt鈥檚 face when she opened the door, together with the overwhelming relief I felt as I stepped into the light and warmth, lives with me now.
PS. It was blood.

The mention of torch batteries reminds me that at some stage in the war, I heard from somewhere that batteries could be 鈥榬einvigorated鈥� by some chemical. I cannot remember what that chemical was, but my Aunt obtained some from a local chemist. In those days 鈥榦rdinary鈥� torch batteries (U2=D type of today) were encased in lead, it was therefore easy to pierce the side with a penknife and drip the chemical into the 鈥榠nnards鈥�. Sealing up the battery afterwards was a different matter, and the rejuvenated battery would soon become a sticky mess. The process did work, but the resultant life was very short.

Air Raid Shelters. In an area that was only (probably accidentally) bombed once, Air Raid Shelters became playgrounds for children, dens, and gang headquarters. Some time in the Autumn of 1939, and just before joining the RNVR and being posted eventually to the Middle East, my Father started digging a big hole in the paddock behind the house. Bigger and deeper it got, and lined with hefty wall and roof timbers was covered with 鈥榯he diggings鈥�. This was to be our Air Raid shelter, but was never used in earnest, even on the night of the raid. It was damp cold and smelly, and was never really equipped for its intended purpose. The pile of spoil on the top was used for a number of purposes, including our explosives testing. These consisted of home made explosives (the chemicals easily obtained from local Chemists!) and the occasional farmers 鈥榮carecrow bangers鈥�. Often the relevant device would be placed in a bottle and buried or half-buried in the soil. How we set them off, I cannot recall, apart from the obvious matches, though I do have a faint memory of a length of wire a battery and some fuse wire. It seems that even we realised that we should not be too close when the device went off.

Air Raid warnings woke us night after night, week after week, month after month. In consequence they were ignored, and we would awake to hear the warning, turn over and go back to sleep until awoken again by the All Clear some time later. Our nearest siren was on a wooden tower some 400 yards up the road at The Stamford Steam Laundry. It could be heard loud and clear enough to wake us, except in the worst of howling gales when it鈥檚 sound became very plaintive. On a quiet night, after the warning, we sometimes heard the sound of aircraft and would then listen intently for the so called 鈥榳harm wharm wharm鈥� sound of the reputed desynchronised beat of twin engine German aircraft.

One night it was different, warning and back to sleep as usual. Wide-awake, but why? Next thing my Brother and I were hurried out of bed and taken down stairs. We were told of an explosion. Nothing happened, and eventually the all clear sounded and back to bed we went. The next morning off to school we went, and on the way were yelled at by someone saying that our school was closed. We did not believe them, but it was. On arrival we found an armed sentry at the school entrance, and were told to go home. Nice thought, but fat chance of us doing so until we found out why? It seemed that one or two bombs had exploded near a factory at the edge of town, and there were also one or two unexploded bombs in the vicinity. One of these was in a street 100 or so yards from the school. It took the Army two days to get to it, defuse it, and haul it away. We wished it had taken them longer!

A real army revolver. All my Uncles went off to war in one guise or another, most into the Army. One, a physicist, to do something mysterious but despite many attempts, we never did find out what. After the war he returned with an impressive array of ex government radios, and parts. My Mother鈥檚 Brother, Uncle Phil, served with the Royal Engineers, and on one leave arrived back in uniform with a revolver at his hip-Gosh!

My Brother and I were allowed to hold it -gosh gosh! I suspect it was a .45 as I remember Uncle Phil being very scornful about .38 revolvers. His words had impact: 鈥� If someone is coming at you with a bayonet, a .38 is useless. Hit him with a .38 bullet and he will keep going long enough to bayonet you. Hit him with a .45 bullet, and he will stop鈥�!

Talking of bullets, as I said before, the skies over Stamford were seldom empty, but one afternoon at school, they did seem extra busy. On return home, there was much excitement on Empingham Road. There had been a skirmish with German aircraft, during which a bullet from a German aircraft had struck the roof of our next door neighbour鈥檚 house, lucky so and so thought I, why not our house? There was already a ladder to the roof, with someone digging to find the bullet, and of very secondary importance to replace the slate. One more item for their collection.

Our next door neighbour had a family timber business with lots of contacts around our part of the country. In consequence, their collection of bits of German aircraft, shell cases, bomb fragments etc grew so fast we had no hopes of competing and soon gave up the unequal struggle. We just went round to their 鈥楾rophy Room鈥� to admire and examine the collection on many occasions.

Ante German and ante Hitler feeling was fuelled, not only by the news, but also by songs, ditties and poems. These were of course highly derogatory, and many had 鈥榙irty versions鈥� in the foulest of language which were inevitably performed in the playground or loo at school (never at home!), despite the fact that the meaning of much of the language was a mystery to many.

To be continued.

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