大象传媒

One of the enjoyable aspects for me of World War II was the opportunity given to an early teen-ager to participate in the intense farming activity which was taking place, to meet the nation鈥檚 war-time needs.

As a pupil of Portsmouth Grammar School evacuated to Southbourne, Bournemouth, I seized the chance to join other school chums in the scheme, which my school had arranged with two farmers at New Milton, to help in gathering the harvest during school holidays in August. It was probably in August 1942 that I joined the ranks of those helping farmers John Eager and John Foster to bring in either wheat, barley or oats from the fields or 鈥� and this was much less popular 鈥� pick potatoes from the rich New Milton soil for the princely sum of 9d (old pence) per hour. We were paid in cash at the end of each week and derived some satisfaction from having earned money, rather than receiving amounts of pocket money such as our parents could afford.

Of course, we had to have lodgings during this time and my friend John Upfold and I were very well looked after by a kindly Mrs.Oakley in a house called 鈥淏ytheline鈥�, which had, at the bottom of its garden, the main railway line from Southampton to Bournemouth. Mrs Oakley seemed well-versed in the ways of the farming community and provided us with packs of sandwiches and bottles of cold tea to sustain us during our days鈥� labours. (I am reminded that I have never lost my liking for cold, unsweetened tea, which I am drinking as I write, and that I cannot remember paying Mrs Oakley out of our meagre earnings for our board and lodgings 鈥� perhaps the School paid.)

An early start was required and Mrs Oakley ensured that we were up and about in time for breakfast and to be at work by seven o鈥檆lock, after a short journey on our bikes.

In an age of combine harvesters, it should be difficult to envisage the relatively primitive methods of harvesting of the 1940鈥檚 but the memory and images spring quickly to mind. After the corn had sufficiently ripened, it was cut 鈥� by a harvester machine with rotating paddle blades, towed behind a tractor, with a farm-hand sitting on it 鈥� and thrown on to the ground in sheaves. The next process was to collect the individual sheaves by hand and stack a number of them together 鈥� cut ends to the ground 鈥� to dry for a day or two; the sheaves thus gathered were called 鈥渟tooks鈥�. (The traditional picture of an English wheat field shows the 鈥渟tooks鈥� all standing in orderly lines.) Leaving the corn-field ultimately to stubble, the stooks were individually raised by two-pronged pitch-fork and placed on a flat bed trailer hitched to a tractor. (In use, we had three types of tractor, the green-painted and somewhat primitive but reliable Fordson with an easy stirrup clutch pedal; the bright orange Allis-Chalmers, more sophisticated and less forgiving to the uninitiated; the trio was completed by the green-grey and caterpillar-tracked and diesel driven International-Harvester 鈥淐rawler鈥�, which had its own particular character but was not such a fearsome beast once steering by tracks had been mastered.) As farm-hands pitched the sheaves on to the trailer from either side as it moved forward, a couple of their number stood on the trailer and placed them, so that the load was evenly distributed. Once the load had reached about 6 feet or so in height, it was ready to be driven to the rick-yard, where its load was placed 鈥� as many sheaves as could be pitched at a time 鈥� on to an elevator, which dropped them into the ambit of the rick-makers, who had started their skilled and intensive task at ground level.
My own introduction to the farming process was to have a pitchfork placed in my hand and to be told to join the others in lifting as many sheaves as possible onto the trailer. This was all very well at the start, but, because I had not then started my adolescent growth, I was not very tall and, before long, the height of the loaded sheaves was beyond my reach. This, of course, meant that I was idle until the load had reached its full height or until an empty trailer returned from the rick yard. This did not suit and, so, I was bidden to鈥� get up on the tractor and drive it鈥�, though without any training. Whilst the Fordson was easy on the clutch and easy to drive, the Allis-Chalmers鈥� clutch was fierce enough for me to have very nearly pitched my chums off the trailer as I jerk started. It got much better and I grew in my first and later years, so that I could pitch with the best of them, drive all the tractors, including the caterpillar-tracked, and ultimately was engaged in rick-making, feeding the skilled hands with sheaves to place.

One of the unwelcome tasks on the farms was potato picking. Armed with wicker trug-type baskets, we followed a tractor along the rows of growing potatoes and picked up and placed in the baskets all those which the machinery attached to the tractor had thrown out. As soon as a basket was filled, it had to be taken to a convenient place in the field, where an empty or part-filled sack was waiting, and its contents tipped until the neck of the sack was ready to be tied. Dusty, dirty, back-tiring, it is not surprising that the instruction that one was to be potato picking was usually greeted with groans and the task undertaken less than enthusiastically.

It was whilst rick-making that I witnessed a scene which I will never forget, though I am happy to say that it no longer haunts my memory or my dreams.

In the vicinity of New Milton were several war-time airfields, two of which 鈥� Holmsley South and Beaulieu 鈥� were well-known to us and could be relied upon to provide the aeroplane 鈥渟potters鈥� amongst us with a variety of aircraft types. Holmsley South in high summer, 1943, was operating some early model Handley Page 鈥淗alifaxes鈥� on long-range Coastal Command patrols, one of which must have been in circuit, though above cloud on a bright but cloudy day. A Vickers 鈥淲ellington鈥� had recently taken off from RAF Beaulieu en route for RAF Chivenor in North Devon and was just below cloud base. Unfortunately, it had broken regulations and had failed to inform Holmsley Tower of its whereabouts or intentions. The sound of aircraft must have caused those of us on the rick to look up and to behold the awful sight of the 鈥淗alifax鈥� breaking cloud and colliding with the 鈥淲ellington鈥�, shearing off the latter鈥檚 fin and rudder and causing it to plunge almost vertically into the ground, a mile or two away. The 鈥淗alifax鈥� went into a steep diving turn (early 鈥淗alifaxes鈥� had been plagued with stability problems) from which it seemed unable to recover, all four 鈥淢erlin鈥� engines roaring at full power. It struck the ground at a shallow angle and, by the time we had rushed on our bikes to where a column of smoke was rising, the scene was terrible to behold. Broken pieces of aircraft were strewn across the field, ammunition and flares were starting to explode and, to this day, I believe that parts of the bodies of the poor aircrew were to be seen. Before we could take in any more of the scene, the police arrived and drove us away and back to our rick making. I wish I had not witnessed this crash. I wish it had not happened. I can only add for the brave dozen or so airmen, 鈥淩equiescat in pace鈥�. 鈥淭hough we did not know you,you gave your lives for us. We will remember you鈥�

In the following year, the excitement of the D-Day landings coupled with sitting our School Certificate Exams took pride of place in our thoughts and doings. Farming was a lower key affair that year and my main memory is of more potato picking and gathering cucumbers !

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