大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War site by the Dunstable At War Team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his/her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

A chapter from an autobiographical account of his life written for his grandchildren.

Fortunately, and particularly when one sees photographs of the human misery caused by war, it must be admitted that Dunstable hardly knew that a war was going on at all. We had no factories of special strategic importance, so any bombs which landed on Dunstable were usually leftovers from whatever and wherever was the real purpose for the raid. There were a few attacks on Luton where the Vauxhall car factory (but more importantly, the Bedford and Commer truck works) produced vehicles for the war effort, so Dunstable got one or two throwaway bombs as the German planes returned home. I remember that one of our customers had her next door neighbour鈥檚 roof tiles neatly piled up in her front garden as a result of one of these afterthoughts but, otherwise, no damage at all.

There was one occasion however, when Dunstable was the target. The town had two factories of minor importance; one known as the Sphinx Works and the other the Empire Rubber Works. Both of these produced components for military vehicles so it was in Germany鈥檚 interest that they should be knocked out.

I remember the day very well. It was a Saturday afternoon in late summer (most likely in 1943) and I was at the top of Bigthan Road when I heard the nearby drone of a plane鈥檚 engine. Looking up I saw a German bomber flying very low; so low, in fact that I could see the pilot easily and could experience that strange sensation of direct eye to eye contact as we stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity but which was no more than a couple of seconds in reality. This was an eerie moment and I imagined he was going to shoot me - but he smiled at me instead. I wonder what he thought of the small boy gawping at him: I wonder if he had a small son at home as well. Such is the stupidity of war.

Although we had virtually no direct contact with the war, we were fully aware that a war was going on 鈥� even if we had no proper idea as to the horror of it all. We were subjected to air raid warnings given out by the mournful wailing of the siren mounted at Bagshawe鈥檚 factory opposite the station and people would then take cover either in the cupboard under the stairs, under a large table or, as in our case, in the family air raid shelter.

After this shelter had been dug in our back garden, it resembled a large grass covered mound with an entrance (similar to a Bronze Age burial chamber 鈥� not a pleasant thought) and, upon going in and down, one came across a room in which there were bunks and a paraffin lamp and heater. At one period during the earlier part of the war (when London was being bombed repeatedly) I spent many nights sleeping in this shelter. I would be let out again when the siren sounded the 鈥榓ll clear鈥�. It wasn鈥檛 very nice in there and got a bit 鈥榳hiffy鈥� with three people in a cramped space, little air circulation and the dampness due to condensed breath. Still, it was better than getting a bomb on your head; no one can argue with that. Apart from its intended function, during the day this shelter became a castle to be defended, or an important hill to be won (with incredible loss of life) in order to rout the Germans and win the war for the British. We were filled with all the jingoist passion of the British and their allies being the goodies and the Germans being the baddies. The Japanese were regarded with particular hatred since our local regiment, the Beds and Herts, had been caught up at Singapore and many men either never came back or, if they did, had horrific stories to tell.

We studied photographs, pictures, diagrams and sketches of guns, ships and planes on both sides and spoke knowledgeably amongst ourselves about Spitfires versus Messerschmitts, Lancasters versus Heinkels, and so on. We knew the badges of the different regiments and branches of the armed services; the equivalent ranks between the Army, Royal Navy and Royal Air Force; the roles of the 鈥榟ybrid鈥� services such as the Royal Marines, the Commandos, Fleet Air Arm, and RAF Regiment. We heard the propaganda broadcasts given by the infamous traitor Lord Haw-Haw; we joined in the singing (awful when one looks back) songs about Hitler and Georing and Geobbels, (they were always deficient in some physical attribute I remember) and about White Cliffs of Dover and Meeting Again Someday.

For much of the earlier part of the war, Britain could easily have been beaten and the situation was pretty grim. But we kids didn鈥檛 appreciate such subtleties; we were too engrossed with the romance of battle.

We collected anything vaguely connected with the war. In particular, every boy had a shrapnel collection in which any twisted piece of metal would be attributed to some German bomb or a bit of blown up Italian tank 鈥� the stories were fantastic and completely fanciful. But who was to know what was right and what was wrong? And who cared anyway?

We also collected badges, buttons, fragments of uniform, a forage cap or a piece of uniform with stripes on it - especially prized. We would polish the badges until they shone much more than the original owner had ever made them shine. Of particular curiosity, and therefore value, were German badges 鈥� anyone with anything like that was envied out of all proportion. I don鈥檛 know if girls collected anything to do with the war or even if girls were in the slightest bit interested in the war. All I know is that we wouldn鈥檛 have been seen dead with a girl and such creatures were to be avoided at all times. Girls played soppy games and fantasised about being married and having babies and (horror of horrors) love and kisses. Yuk!! Girls were definitely not part of our scene.

Another offshoot of the war which impinged on our lives in the St Peter鈥檚 Road area was to do with the station again. As part of the drive to make war time machinery such as tanks and planes, scrap metal was very valuable. From the earliest days of the war, the iron railings which traditionally decorated people鈥檚 front garden walls were systematically removed, which made access much easier when retrieving footballs or whatever, and taken to places like Freddie Carter鈥檚 scrap dump at the station. As well as garden railings, this dump had all sort of exciting bits and pieces which we just had to see and investigate. After a while, this dump grew to mountainous proportions and we would climb all over it without ever thinking of the potential dangers associated with such an insecure structure. There were all sorts of things worth having (to us at least) and I have no doubt that many of the pieces of German tank in someone鈥檚 shrapnel collection started life on Freddie Carter鈥檚 dump.

There was a large crane which was used to transfer the scrap metal from this dump into waiting railway trucks. This crane was obviously an object of great interest. We wanted to climb it, but the spoil-sports at the station (as usual) didn鈥檛 see it like that. There was always someone around during working days to chase small boys away and threaten then with some fate worse than death if ever they were caught. But not at weekends, so that was when we did most of our foraging and even climbed part way up the crane 鈥� only part way because this was a very tall crane and we weren鈥檛 really so brave as we liked to pretend.

On one Saturday afternoon however, Ian decided to give it a go and climbed and climbed until he discovered that there were lots of people watching him from the allotments which used to lie next to the station and along the Luton Road. One of these public spirited types thought the station master and his entourage ought to know about this escapade and the station master thought the police should be informed at once. In a comparatively short space of time there was a reception committee awaiting Ian鈥檚 descent 鈥� and their body language suggested they weren鈥檛 altogether friendly. Ian gradually climbed down and when he got to about six or eight feet off the ground, he suddenly jumped and tore off like a scalded cat.

Another aspect of the war which affected all of us (and for a number of years afterwards) was rationing. Although I lived at a shop and therefore fared better than most, I was still subject to a degree of rationing 鈥� especially sweets. I used to love Crunchie bars and I took my entire ration in these. I remember that my special treat after school each day was a little bite out of my Crunchie bar. After a few days of being exposed to the air, Crunchie bars go all soggy and sticky. Really a rather revolting mess, but I didn鈥檛 care.

Another thing was the total absence of tropical fruits like fresh pineapple and banana. I had experienced the very occasional tin of pineapple, which I thought was marvellous, but had no appreciation of bananas at all. I can recall that older people spoke lovingly of bananas so my expectation was built up to the skies. So much so that when I actually tasted a banana for the first time after the war I was rather disappointed. I had built up this vision of something so absolutely perfect that anything, however wonderful, was bound to disappoint. What a pity 鈥� I had so looked forward to bananas.

Thinking back to what was the weekly allowance of basic foodstuffs under rationing and comparing what is available today, it seems amazing that people didn鈥檛 starve. A single weekly allowance of basic ingredients for one person was something like: 2oz butter, 4oz margarine, 2oz cooking fat, 1 egg, 2oz cheese, 4oz sugar. In addition soap and tea were rationed, not that the rationing of soap bothered me at all, and nearly everything else such as tins of beans or packets of cornflakes were on 鈥榩oints鈥�. Each person had a certain allocation which had to last for a number of months and he/she could use them up as and when they pleased.

Everyone had to be registered at a particular shop for their rations 鈥� there was no chopping or changing about and no supermarkets. Since dad was very popular, many people registered with him, including many from Totternhoe who had known him all his life, and the shop was always pretty busy.

Although the basic rations seem very meagre by today鈥檚 standard, the diet was supplemented with lots of vegetables and people were encouraged to grow their own food as much as possible. There was the famous poster 鈥淒ig for Victory鈥� showing some happy yeoman with great bunches of carrots and arms full of potatoes. There was also the bright idea that rhubarb leaves made excellent vegetables and it wasn鈥檛 until numerous people went down with severe stomach pains that it was discovered that rhubarb leaves are slightly toxic.

Whilst on the subject of vegetables, something which is largely unknown nowadays was the delightful experience of tasting the first new potatoes of the season. This usually happened late spring or early summer. By then, we had survived on the previous season鈥檚 potatoes for about nine months. These had been stored outside in 鈥榗lamps鈥� for this length of time and by January or February, the potatoes were barely edible, or actually rotten, and the only way they could possibly be eaten was boiled, then mashed. An endless diet of mashed potato for two or more months became very boring and the comparison with the first potatoes of the new season was gastronomic pleasure without bounds. According to health experts, and in spite of minor upsets like rhubarb leaves and suspect potatoes, the average person was much healthier under rationing than in these days of plenty where obesity is a major problem, and likely to get worse.

As boys, we got through the war years with little inconvenience; after all, what we didn鈥檛 know about we didn鈥檛 miss. With hindsight however, the most damaging effect on me was that my father was not around to exact control and guidance during these important and formative years in my development.

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