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Memories of when the Yanks came to Truro

Living next door to me at 4 Hendra Vean was the father of nine children, Bob Hay - Australian by birth and an ex-submariner in the Australian Navy in the 1914/18 war. A fine man, who shortly after war had been declared in 1939, had been made a sergeant major in the Hendra home Guard. Dressed in his Home Guard uniform Bob went for a drink in the Royal Hotel Truro one evening in December. The public bar had been for some time, frequented by US Army officers who often indulged in bouts of hard drinking, if the black market of booze allowed. The Royal Hotel had quickly become the drinking hole of many US officers and at weekends became particularly busy when female company flooded into the town from outside villages. Bob soon became friendly with some of these officers and before long was being treated to drink and the smoking of Cuban cigars. A colonel asked Bob where he and his buddies might be able to obtain some fresh meat for the coming Christmas. After all they were fed up with eating canned meat of Spam and corned beef. Bob informed them of the stringent rationing that was taking place and that their only hope of obtaining any fresh meat was on the black market. Somewhat disappointed they parted company with the Colonel鈥檚 last parting shot ring in Bob鈥檚 ear 鈥� 鈥淚f ya hear of anything Bob, we鈥檒l be here waiting for ya with the cash鈥�.

Wednesday, being Market day in Truro Bob visited the Market Inn close to the cattle market and as he passed a table he noticed Farmer Solomon sitting there and near crying into his beer. After stopping and consoling the farmer, Bob learned he had suffered the terrible shock of having one of his prized milking cows drop dead out in the field, from what he did not know. Bob informed the farmer that he might be able to do him a favour and make up for his loss, and as they put their heads together they made some final plans.

Bob met the Colonel the following Saturday and after agreeing their plan of action, there was talk of money the likes of which had Bob choking on his cigar. On Sunday evening and under a December moon, a lorry with a motorized winch accompanied by two US Army dispatch riders trundled their way along a country lane and across a frosted meadow to where a carcass of a Friesian cow lay motionless. Bob was amazed at the lorry driver鈥檚 quickness as he winched the cow鈥檚 carcass into the back of the covered lorry.

Enjoying a pint of bitter in the Star Inn later, Bob was overjoyed it had all worked out so well. Ina quiet corner he counted out, several times, his half of 拢50 鈥� before placing the farmers share in an inside pocket of his jacket.

Bob thought it wise to give the Royal a miss for sometime and make sure he and his family enjoyed a good Christmas. He had been invited to play his mandolin and his son Harold the guitar in the Royal on Saturday evening, but not before late January and so he had no intention of going there before then.

鈥楾he two Bob鈥檚鈥� as they were known stepped into the Royal that night with some apprehension and flinched when thinking they were about to be attacked by a certain Colonel and several of his junior officers. Bob raised his hands above his head as though in surrender as they rushed over to him and commenced slapping him on the back. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e a damned good guy, you sure are Bob. Here have a cigar. Now Captain do your duty and buy our Bob and his son a drink鈥�.

They bought them more than one drink that evening and when Bob and his son could drink no more, they sent them home in the Colonel鈥檚 chauffeur driven jeep. Bob had cigars, packets of cigarettes and several extra pounds sticking out from every pocket.

In early February, Bob temporarily joined the US Army. Given a uniform and the rank and pay of a Master sergeant, he was immediately placed in charge of the 鈥楧oughnut Factory鈥� in Union Place. Many of Truro鈥檚 residents at the time will remember the Doughnut Factory located opposite the Technical School and on the first floor of the HQ of the Observer Corps. My fondest memories of Bob were his constantly presenting me with large brown paper bags filled with the most wonderful tasting doughnuts. We ate them sat on walls and on playground swings, in the branches of trees or sat inside air raid shelters. The Doughnut factory could not have been more convenient for me, for my father was in the Observer Corps and I had to pass the factory door when taking from home, meals to the Observer Corps HQ for my father. Bob and a black American called 鈥楤omber鈥� would answer my knock on the factory door and with a friendly smile, I would be handed a large bag of crispy doughnuts. It had suddenly become a time of plenty.

The US Army PX in Truro that served all the camps in and around the city was located in the old Regent Cinema and the indoor market place adjoining the Town Hall. Beside meals and snacks being served there, there were film shows, variety shows and dances held for the troops and occasionally their female partners. At Christmas and Easter the children of the city attended a variety show put on by the US Army command. Everyone attending was treated to sweets, chewing gum and candy and a paper bag filled with chocolate powder. It was a case of wetting your finger and dipping into the bag like we did with sherbet. I can remember thinking at the time 鈥渨hat wonderful generous people the Americans were鈥�. At Christmas in 1943 we were all given an orange, an apple and a large bar of dark bitter chocolate. The chocolate I gave to me mother who melted it down before spreading it over a chocolate sponge log for Christmas Day which was delicious with custard.

Other dances were held regularly at Tremorva, Moresk Drill Hall and Hendra Drill Hall and with money to spend; every pub, inn and hotel welcomed the US troops with open arms.

It was only a few days from Christmas Day and the town was literally crawling with Yanks. My Father, who had been working at The Observer Corps. HQ in Union Place was on his way home to Hendra after finishing at 10.00pm. As he approached Francis Street he could see a lot of US soldiers fighting outside the Globe Public House. He estimated the were 40 to 50 coloured and white soldiers involved who were using broken bottle, glasses and knives on each other in the road. Several bodies were lying about in the road covered with blood. Trucks arrived filled with Military Police who were dressed in white helmets, belts and gaiters. They quickly waded into the melee, swinging their staves and knocked to the ground many of the US troops. Other MP鈥檚 picked up the unconscious ones and threw them bodily into the backs of waiting lorries. Army ambulances took away the badly injured. Father said the MP鈥檚 rid the street of troops and debris in a matter of fifteen minutes, and after they had cleaned up and gone off into the night, no one would have even suspected anything so violent had occurred.

As soon as the General commanding the area learned of the incident, he ordered the segregation of black and white troops during off duty time and that they only be allowed out on alternate evenings 鈥� blacks on one night, white the next night. He also warned they would be confined to camp for the duration if any similar incidents occurred. He also apologized to the public for the behaviour of his troops and as a gesture of good will authorized a New Years children鈥檚 variety show ay the US army PX. A whole week鈥檚 army issued rations of candy, chocolate, tinned fruit and doughnuts were given out after the show to the children of Truro.

Each camp had its own kitchen marquee, dining marquee, hospital marquee and cinema marquee. A store marquee provided bedding and all necessary equipment a soldier required. There were doctor鈥檚 and dentist鈥檚 tents and a PX shop and post office. Although ordered to wear uniform at all times, many troops had civilian clothing sent to them in parcels from the USA. By the time the spring of 1944 arrived they took to the streets wearing their gabardine trousers and colourful summer Hawaiian shirts. Local girls made hay while the sun shone and in the following weeks there was previously unseen happiness and excitement. The girls were taught how to jitterbug by the Americans and were now matching them move for move at the dances and as visiting US bands played Glen Miller tunes, it was undoubtedly the season for romance.

Everyone knew it could not last and that something would eventually happen which would cause this magical spell to be broken, but this was a time for stolen happiness and the belief of live for today, for there might not be a tomorrow. Each sunny day and starlit night was precious to lovers and all wild guesses and rumours of the future were best avoided. There had become a tendency to avoid reality of this war and to just allow the magic of each moment to happen. So much had occurred in these years of war that it had scared the souls of the war weary. However, as the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the air reeked with the smell of diesel oil. Both British and American military activities increased to near fever pitch daily and a most solemn and serious edge crept into every ones daily life and whispers had it that the day for invasion was close at hand. Mr Hodge, the butcher, a reliable source too many customers, simply told his customers that Europe would be ablaze by the 4 June which caused a great deal of consternation to his customers.

We kids gave nicknames to some of the local women who went out with the Yanks. 鈥楯uicy Lucy鈥�, 鈥楤andy Legs鈥�, 鈥楰nock Knees鈥�, 鈥楾he Dolly Sisters鈥�, 鈥榊es I will, Yes I won鈥檛鈥�, 鈥楽potted Rosie鈥�. 鈥楥oco Legged Doris鈥� and 鈥榁inegar Val鈥� 鈥� who worked in the vinegar factory 鈥� were but a few. The whole town became dance crazy and it was not uncommon to see US soldiers jiving and jitterbugging with girls along the streets and going about their courting in public parks, country lanes and haystacks. Tremorvah Dance Hall was very popular and always filled to capacity, as were Moresk and Hendra Drill Halls on Saturdays and special dances held on weekday evenings. Dances were also held in the US Armies commandeered Regent Cinema and used by the Americans as their PX canteen. The whole town鈥檚 population took to tapping their feet to the swing music of Glen Miller and other American Forces bands emulating his sound. Every lane, park and country walk became a Yankee lover鈥檚 lane and the more eager they became to find solitude, the more of a nuisance we kids became. It would often cost an impatient GI a great deal of chewing gum or candy to get rid of these 鈥榙arn pesky kids鈥�.

Treliske Camp after the Us Army left.

So much of their personal items had been left in lockers and scattered about within the tents, it was obvious that had left in a hurry. American magazines were scattered over the duckboards and their thrashed about in the wind. Unmade beds were covered with candy, tinned food, civilian clothing, cameras, musical instruments, and letters from home and remnants and kiddies drawings from inside parcels. Stuck to locker doors were cut out pictures of Betty Grable, Veronica Lake and hundreds of photographs of smiling pretty women with good teeth and smiling children without any front ones. The camp itself resembled one of those western ghost towns, often seen in one of those American supporting cowboy films, where tumbleweed rolled by in dust filled winds. Here the violence of war machines had smashed the duckboards to smithereens and made divots and track-ways deep within the soil. Now filled with puddles of muddy and oily water, no golfer would be attempting a hole in one here for a long time to come.

Once inside the tents we kids helped ourselves to souvenirs of uniform flashes, buttons, badges and anything that was edible. We stuffed pockets and the inside of our shirts with everything that glittered or appeared to be edible. Only when the US Army MP鈥檚 were heard approaching in a jeep, did we escape under the perimeter barbed wire and made our way deeper into the countryside to enjoy our spoils of war.

Boscaswen Park Camp after the US Army had left.

The Smoking Hill, as it was known, was a small man made mountain made from US Army unwanted belongings and army equipment. It was climbed daily by many of the towns kid鈥檚, who spent hours searching in the hope finding something valuable or useful, it was a case of scrimmaging about in an attempt to find anything that could be put to good use. Discarded were thousands of unused khaki coloured tins of boot dubbing that no one could find a use for. The US Army skeleton crews, left behind to clear up, lit as fire under Smoking Hill. Although no flames were seen it continued to elude smoke until after the war was over. Many were relieved to see the end of the eyesore when bulldozers flattened The Smoking Hill to the ground and buried it without trace. Everything the Yanks left behind was burned or buried, apart from tents and equipment, which was sold off and taken away by lorries. The Boscaswen Park area was eventually made good and the area that had once been covered by The Smoking Hill became football pitches and the home of Truro Cricket Club. Somewhere buries in the annals of Truro鈥檚 history will be recorded the generosity of the American people who helped pay for the restoration of Boscawen Park after the war. Although I have never seen a public plaque of dedication to that or to those who gave their lives that we might live in freedom.

Treliske Camp returned to being a golf course and one can hardly imagine that sixty years ago and upon those sloping golf links a part of the 29th Division of the US Army were camped before D Day. For me, as a child of war, Carvedras Camp holds the most wonderful memories that have remained with me for sixty years. Now built upon with housing, it will most probably be forgotten after my generation has gone. This little camp of American Servicemen, who had once upon a war, lived in tents beside the River Kenwyn, will not have been recorded in any history of the war. One is left with the memory of the excitement and joy the Yanks gave us children during those dark days of war. Regrettable our much-loved 鈥楬umpy Bumpy Path鈥� disappeared when Carvedras became built upon with housing. Whenever I pass such places now, I am always reminded of those far off days when Truro was historically and closely involved with World War 2.

It was during a bleak period of the war that Truro and its people were invaded by those friendly and generous Yanks. We were over rationed, skinny, hungry scallywags, who had been let loose on those American soldiers who had come from a land of plenty. It should never be forgotten many of these valiant young Americans gave their lives for our freedom. May God be with them wherever they are?

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