大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Allan Price, of 大象传媒 Scotland, on behalf of Tony Peers and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

I was three years old when the war began and almost nine on VE day, marking the end of the war with Germany. War elsewhere in the world was not finally over until VJ day when the Japanese surrendered after the Americans dropped the first even atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki bringing hostilities in the Pacific and Far East to an end.

Throughout the war I lived with my father, mother and three brothers in Sandycroft (north Wales) a small village beside the river Dee. The area was frequently raided, sometimes in error, by the Luftwaffe mistaking the river Dee for the river Mersey while on night bombing missions.

Their main target areas were the port and city of Liverpool (a major support base for Britain鈥檚 war effort), the warship building and repair yard across the river and Birkenhead and a major steel-making plant on the river Dee marshes at Shotton on the Welsh side. The close proximity of the two rivers separated only by the narrow Wirral peninsula confused the German aircrews flying in complete darkness with no tell-tale lights on the ground to help them find the targets.

I was lucky living in our small village. My father had a few acres of land, and raised chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys and pigs all on his spare time helped by we four young sons. He worked in the steelworks on a full-time basis helping to make steel for the war effort. All of our steel produced went for the manufacture of armaments, ships, tanks, and other equipment.

All of his livestock was carefully accounted for under the strict control of an inspector from the Ministry of Agriculture. At least all the animals he got to know about. I remember well his visits. The trick was to make sure he did not get to count all the stock. The odd one or two would mysteriously disappear during his visit, quickly hidden away, and then reappear like magic when he had left. The canny village folk managed very well compared to those living in the towns and cities.

My father was allowed to fatten one pig for slaughter to be shared between family and friends provided he had saved enough ration coupons to cover the amount of meat produced. The exact number of coupons had to be handed to the Ministry. I can still visualise the sides of home-grown home-cured bacon ad legs of ham hanging on hooks from the old beamed ceiling in our cottage. We four hungry sons make sure nothing went to waste and have not tasted pork and bacon like it since. We were very fortunate but Mum and Dad had to work very hard to make it so.

During air raids, although not supposed to, we liked to sneak outside to watch the fun and wave our fists at the bombers but were quickly chased back inside to the safety of the Anderson shelter. The morning following an air-raid, on our way to school, we used to find pieces of shrapnel which had showered back to earth after the night鈥檚 action. Sometimes there would be hot and we would toss them from hand to hand on cold mornings to warm our hands. The teacher used to wait at the school gate and confiscate them if we tried to sneak our treasured finds into school.

Deliveries to our village including postal parcels from Chester (the nearest city, six miles away) were made by horse and cart. Coal, groceries, bread, and other items all delivered in the same way. Milk came from a local farm and was carried in shiny ten gallon metal churns on horse drawn milk float and measured into small cans with lids and carrying handles. Households would put a jug covered with a saucer on the doorstep and the milk delivery boy would pour the allowed ration into the jug always taking care to replace the saucer. At eight years old I was a milk delivery boy which meant getting up early to go with the milkman to collect the days supply from the farm.

Just one mile outside our village there was the perimeter fence of a Ministry of Defence airfield and repair base near Broughton. I have memories of rushing home from school, getting changed quickly into play clothing, and joining the older boys to run to the airfield to see what was happening. We would stand outside the security fence and watch the aircraft limping in with holes through the fuselage and wings to be quickly patched and sent off again to rejoin the battle.

There were Spitfires, Wellington bombers, Mosquito fighter bombers, and others we did not recognise. They would fly in very low over the river on their approach to the runway and we liked to be right underneath them if we could thrill to the awesome sight and sound of such a spectacle. We put our hands over our ears to shut out the deafening noise.

Exploring the occasional bomb crater on the river bank was also great fun. We were not supposed to go near but did not see the possible danger, had no fear, and persisted in doing it until the area was fenced off by the military. It was a silly and dangerous thing to do, but boys will be boys, and we saw it as just another adventure.

I remember well the outrage in our small community and nearby village (Pentre) when and stray bomb fell on the road outside the Co-Op shop and bake house which blew the front windows out and damaged the building. We trouped along after school to inspect the damage, as we would, to see all the custard pies thrown away because they were full of broken glass and debris. We were very cross with the German鈥檚 for that.

Every night the family would gather around the crackling valve radio set in its old wooden cabinet to listen to the latest news from the war. I know I was very young at the time but I do not recall hearing any suggestion that we would lose the war and adults did their very best to hide their concerns to make sure we were not worried at all. Everyone worked very hard and helped each other in any way they could through those difficult times.

I remember a lorry arriving in our village one day with workmen to remove all the iron railings and gates for melting down at the steelworks to make steel for the manufacture of armaments. It was sad to see lovely wrought iron ornamental gates and railing being taken away for scrap, but it was necessary since raw material like everything else was in short supply.

Although the war (apart from the air raids) was taking place far away in Europe, our small village had a small taste of the results of war activities. A prisoner of war camp was established near the edge of our village with high security fencing and patrolled by armed guards and temporary huts for the prisoners. During the latter years of the war, the camp was home to a number of Italian prisoners of war who had been captured.

It became clear after a short time that they were very docile and friendly. After all, they were just ordinary young men who had been forced to join the war and end up on the losing side, in captivity in a foreign country far away from home. I think they were pleased to be out of the war and content to wait until it all ended. They were treated well and gave no trouble. Although they were not free to leave the camp we boys got to know them through the security fences. The guards did not mind and it all seemed very friendly to us.

The Italians were very clever with their hands and make things from scrap material they could find to help pass the time. They made sandals, fashioning the base from thick rope coiled in the shape of the sole of the foot and straps over the top made from strips of strong canvas. People in the village would swap cigarettes for a pair passed under the fence. My brother brought a pair home but my mother threw them in the fire and told us to stay away from 鈥渢hose foreigners鈥�. We disobeyed of course.

Then came VE day; no more black outs, no more sirens at night, no more gas masks, and time for celebration. Street parties were organised. All the women, with not much in the way of food supplies, laid on sandwiches, home-made pies, jellies and other good things. Piano鈥檚 drums, and any other instruments that anyone could play, we carried out into the street. Home-made flags, and bunting was strung across the street and lamp posts. People sang and danced, laughed and cried. I liked the man from next door who had a set of drums but only seemed to know one rhythm but no on seemed to mind. The war for us was over, but food rationing and general shortages of all things we take for granted would continue for a number of years after.

Just one big adventure for a little boy like me.

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