大象传媒

In 1943 during my time at RAF Beachy Head I was billeted in a civilian guesthouse called "Beachy Rise" on the southern side of Eastbourne. The landlady of the guesthouse, a Miss Trimmer, ran the place in exactly the same way, as she was wont to do in peacetime. Each airman was allocated a table-place for meals with his own napkin ring, and lunch and dinner were served with all the paraphernalia of extra knives, forks and side-plates. After the austerity of the dormitory life at RAF Foreness Point I felt that I was back in Civvy Street. A maid who also served at the tables in the dining room made up our beds for us. The maid was an elderly lady who before the war had been a permanent resident of the guest-house, but having lost her job as a dispenser at the outbreak of hostilities, she was forced to take up this menial work in order to survive.

In the early part of 1943 Jerry took to worrying the defences on the south coast with a series of fighter-bomber attacks. One of these occurred in Eastbourne when a number of the off-duty airmen were taking lunch in "Beachy Rise". I remember the scene quite vividly. Miss Trimmer was seated at the head of the long dining table about to be served by the maid. About six airmen were seated in their usual places along the sides of the table, when without any warning the roar of low-flying aircraft was heard accompanied by the sound of canon fire and then the crash of bomb explosions. Immediately I ducked under the table as the second wave of fighter-bombers could be heard coming in to attack. When the noise outside had subsided, I looked up. All the other airmen had also disappeared under the table leaving Miss Trimmer still seated on her chair with the serving spoons in her hands and with the elderly maid standing at her side holding a dish of vegetables. "Come along, gentlemen," said Miss Trimmer, "we must not let it get cold!鈥� One by one, each of the shamefaced airmen left cover and retook their seats at the table.

One of these daylight fighter-bomber attacks took place in June 1943. Immediately before the raid I was talking to a ground gunner (an early RAF Regiment type) on the cliff-edge outside the railway container which housed our radar. Over his shoulder I saw a line of enemy fighters rise up from near sea level and cross the coast some two hundred yards to the east. As the aircraft climbed, they released their bombs, which seemed to follow each aircraft as if on tow. The gunner turned round to see what was happening. Then he ran to his slit trench to man a Bren gun. He fired off a couple of bursts without any effect. Later we heard that seven people had been killed in the attack (including an ATS girl on a gun site) and forty-three injured. Even with the Type 42 radar it was impossible to detect aircraft coming in at sea level until they were within ten miles of the station. This gave only a time lapse of three or four minutes for the radar operator to plot the intruders and pass the plots to the filter room at Stanmore for warnings to be dispatched to the local ARP authorities. With the technology then available this meant that the air raid warning siren would sound just as the raiders attacked the coastal defences. It was a tactic that Jerry could use only for hit and run raids on the coastline. The targets further inland were too heavily defended to be approached at low level.
I suppose one of the reasons for the Germans' interest in Eastbourne at this time was the presence in the town of a battalion of Canadian infantry. They were a hard, tough crowd, of whom we RAF boys of gentler breed steered clear, particularly when they were in their cups. One day in summer, I remember watching with a shopkeeper as the battalion marched through the town with all their kit on the way to the railway station, no doubt bound for overseas. I could tell that the shopkeeper was in nowise unhappy to see them go; no doubt he had sometime suffered at their hands. It is strange that those, who do the hard fighting, do not always find favour with those for whom they battle.

O it's Tommy this,
an' Tommy that,
an' 'Tommy, go away';
But it's 'Thank you, Mister Atkins,'
when the band begins to play,

as wrote Rudyard Kipling perhaps fifty years before those departing soldiers were born.

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