大象传媒

World War II Memories
Of Balloons, Bombers and Butterflies.

Christopher Wilkinson
Berry Manor House, Hawkchurch, Devon, EX13 5XL

As far as I can remember it was 1940 when the first ones appeared and they terrified me. I was four years old in the September of that year, exactly 12 months after the war broke out. Even when I was older and knew what they were and what they were for, I did not like them 鈥� hovering up there in the sky silent, brooding and menacing. Looking back on it now, I suppose the barrage balloons weren't really menacing, more docile and reassuring as they floated there on the ends of their long ropes, protecting the docks. But, my alarm was heightened by the wailing sirens, the steady rise and fall of pitch, as my brother and I were grabbed out of bed and bundled downstairs. Passing the landing window, they were still there, shining silver in the light of many searchlights. Were they the cause of our alarm? The balloons bothered me far more than the whistling bombs and explosions.

We stayed under the stairs until the all clear, when the siren wailed again, this time with a continuous note. The searchlights went out and the balloons could be seen no more, until daylight.

My father, thinking he was too old to be 'called up', decided to volunteer and got a commission in the RAF, only a couple of weeks before his call-up papers arrived. For a while he was under orders to be in two places at once, but things sorted themselves out. He taught Navigation, Meteorology, and Astronomy to pilots in training, from which he developed considerable admiration for the ingenuity of the Poles, who had escaped from continental Europe. He had several postings to RAF bases in the early part of the war, before finishing up at Newquay in Cornwall. One could imagine that it would be safe enough there. So the family went with him, instead of being evacuated. But several times I stood and watched dog fights between British fighters and German bombers and their escorts, whilst out in the countryside collecting food and straw for my rabbits. Once one was shot down and fell into the Gannel, right in front of me. After the splash, I waited for the pilot to emerge, but none appeared so far as I could tell.

One night my Dad came back home looking rather sheepish. He was returning from an evening Astronomy class and had been so engrossed star gazing and working out the constellations, that he walked right into the dining room, before realising he was in the wrong house. He made a hurried retreat.

Around the corner from where we were billeted was the fire station. I used to go round there with some of my friends, when the firemen weren't busy and they would entertain us with games and show us the fire engines. That was until a new senior officer turned up and yelled at us to clear out! I never went round there again.

Then the Americans came and that changed everything!

We kids spent a lot of time at the American barracks and never left empty handed. It was my first introduction to chewing gum and strange brands of chocolate. Wartime Britain was not the place to find such luxuries.

Suddenly sentries were put on duty at all the entrances. At first, the soldiers encouraged us to climb in through the windows, as though they too thought guards were pointless. But our escapades were stopped and soon after all the Americans suddenly disappeared. One day the soldiers were there, the next they were gone and the barracks were empty! The RAF returned within a few days, but also mounted a guard. They had never bothered before.

After a while, for us kids, it was as though the Americans had never been 鈥� except for memories. For us at that time, the American contribution was chewing gum, chocolate, games and high spirits.

We received food parcels during the war, but not from the Red Cross. The first time the postman delivered a large box wrapped in brown paper, my Mum opened it on the table and looked in, gave a cry of mixed emotions. She drew out a piece of paper, which had written on it, 鈥淒on鈥檛 forget to hang them well before cooking.鈥� She pulled out a brace of pheasants, followed by three rabbits. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e all dead,鈥� I said questioningly. 鈥淎m I supposed to pluck and skin these things?鈥� she asked, as though that answered my question.

The parcel was from my Dad, who was stationed away from home, now that the war had moved to another front and enemy aircraft no longer a daily occurrence overhead. As an officer he could still use his car, a 1936 Austin 7, which had a top that opened up and back, so that it was possible to stand upright in the back of the car behind the driver.

After dark, with a couple of airmen in the back with rifles, he would drive up and down the runways, with his headlights full on, whilst they shot anything dazzled by the lights, that suggested a good meal. My dad insisted on his turn to shoot and he became a good shot, which over the years I came to realise. We received several of these food parcels over the coming months. In wartime you didn't turn up your nose at fresh meat. Food rationing was very strictly adhered to and this extra was actually very welcome. Although a cookery teacher, what my Mum didn't like was the preparation, when the fur and feathers were still on and it was necessary to hang them in the larder for so long before cooking.

But another thing happened, that has stayed with me ever since. I met Betty Peters. At 9 she was an older woman, whom I was about to tangle with. She needed a companion and that was me. Betty's family billeted in the same house as us. Her father was also an RAF officer and a colleague of my Dad. After the war the families kept in touch for a while, but contact was eventually lost.

So what was it that stayed with me for sixty years down the line? Betty Peters was interested in 'Bugs'! More particularly butterflies and moths. She not only had a collection, but was also interested in the caterpillars that could be reared to adults. She discovered that some caterpillars protect themselves by rolling up a leaf to hide inside. But so do spiders and therein lay her problem. She didn't like spiders! So, at 7, I was appointed to my first job in Entomology. I became her field technician, with particular responsibility for unrolling leaves to determine whether they contained friend of foe.

Betty allowed me to keep my own collection 鈥� in an old shoebox. It comprised any spare specimens that were not needed for her main collection. With her help, I became quite knowledgeable on the subject of creepy crawlies and, by the time I was 9, I negotiated a proper 8 drawer insect cabinet for my birthday.

But by then Betty Peters had departed out of my life. In the years to come, I looked out for her at all the national and international conferences of Entomology and in the scientific journals. All was to no avail, not that I knew if she used a married name. For her, was Entomology just a childhood infatuation? Were spiders too much to overcome? I'll never know.

For those that remain, that is what the Second World War was all about, meeting and losing people!

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