大象传媒

Memories of Early Childhood in southeast England during WW2
Tim Aldington
Part 2

In the summer of 1940 as the threat of a German invasion daily grew, even my grandmother, probably advised by her husband, thought that we were a little too close to the coast for comfort 鈥� about a 10 minute drive away. So she rented a house for my mother, my sister and me in Charing on the then main road to London, about 25 鈥� 30 miles from the coast. She didn鈥檛 know then that the Battle of Britain when it started later in the summer, often would be fought more or less overhead of us. I remember looking up the condensation trails high up in the sky and the occasional distant sounds of machinegun fire before my mother would hurry out and take me inside. Now and then, a damaged plane would crashland in the nearby fields and one, a Hurricane I think, we were able to see but kept at a distance by a home guard. There was an effective system in operation to recuperate damaged planes (managed by the future Lord Nuffield), using long articulated lorries called 鈥楺ueen Marys鈥�. The wings of the planes were removed and placed alongside the fuselage which had been winched on board. Then lorry and load would trundle off and in many cases the plane would be flying again in a few days or otherwise cannibalized for spare parts. I was fascinated by these lorries which were large for that time when the biggest ones, usually the brewers鈥� lorries carrying barrels of beer, were steam driven. Many years later I was reminded of this scene when, standing by a 鈥榖utterfly bush鈥� in rural France, I saw a large hornet blunder into an unsuspecting butterfly, seize and sting it as they fell to the ground, neatly slice off its wings and bear off the body just like a plane鈥檚 fuselage.

One day while we were at Charing, for some reason I wanted to see my mother who was working in a building just opposite the house, I think a community hall converted to a telephone exchange or air raid warning centre of sorts. So I trotted across the road in the summer sun to be confronted by, what to me, seemed to be a giant in the uniform of an air raid warden, intimidating with his metal helmet, gas mask bag and other paraphanalia of war, complete with stout boots. 鈥淲ell, sonny, where do you think you are going then?鈥� he asked , or words to that effect. 鈥淚 want to see my mummy鈥� I replied, pointing at the building where I thought she was. I think at that moment, my sister emerged and hauled me inside the house. I recall that I was less affected by the air battles above than by the fact that recently I had rolled down the bank of a nearby stream on my tricycle and tumbled therein. Fortunately it was late summertime and the stream was only a few inches deep but, pulled out by my apprehensive mother, I suffered from hurt pride and, not least, from having to walk home, trailing my tricycle, soaking wet. That memory rankled for some time.

Our father came to join us in Charing while on leave. Unwisely, he had volunteered to be a merchant seaman because he didn鈥檛 fancy having to kill anybody I think. He had done one long return trip to South America on what was called an 鈥榓rmed merchant ship鈥� in the generally vain belief early in the sea war that the U boats wouldn鈥檛 find single merchant ships on the high seas. He was scared stiff, rightly believing that they were like sitting ducks. Later the merchant ships came to be gathered into convoys which provided, if not much protection, at least some company. We saw very little of him after that summer in Charing. By late summer, the Battle of Britain was over, the immediate threat of invasion had receded and so we packed up and returned home to our grandparents on the south coast were we remained for the remainder of the war.

We had an maternal aunt who lived with her husband and newly born son on a farm in north Kent. Her husband was exempt from military service as he was running a farm but had to attend a weekly session as home guard. In practice, according to my mother, this consisted of him and his colleagues, repairing to a nearby pub and at closing time, staggering out into the night to await for air raids or parachuting Germans, whatever. But my aunt was worried at being left alone all night with her new baby. This posed a problem for my grandmother who wanted to be with her and baby but didn鈥檛 want to leave her other daughter, my sister and me at home possibly to fall into the clutches of an invading German force. So she packed us all up and we travelled by train to stay a night or two on the farm. It wasn鈥檛 very far but it was a slow local steam train and if we were overtaken by dark there was no means of knowing where we were, what with the blackout and the fact that all the station signboards had been removed to confuse invading German troops, or so it was claimed. So each voyage was something of an adventure. Later, when our aunt鈥檚 baby boy had grown a little, she and baby would come to visit us by what means I don鈥檛 remember, but their arrival posed problems for my sister and I because our aunt would sometimes expropriate some of our toys (left over from prewar days) for her offspring who, it must be admitted, being born some time after the war had started, lacked his own toys. I had taken over a flower bed which I had converted to my version of the desert warfare scene with the few dinky toys that I had at my disposal. Apparently I caused clouds of dust to rise during the dry summer months pursuing my 鈥榳ar games鈥�, which used to reassure my mother when seeing them that I was safely occupied. When the arrival of my aunt and her small son was announced, I used to hastily gather my toys from my desert war reconstructions and hide them, a process I used to grandly call 鈥榙emolishing operations.鈥� I used to make my own toys, building a large model of a battleship from toy bricks and other things (pencils made good gun barrels), and a surrogate tank from an empty cotton reel (one cut notches in its rim to make it grip better on rough surfaces), a matchstick, a pencil and a strong elastic band. And we still had a supply of modelling clay called plasticine with its very particular smell. Towards the end of the war, toys started becoming available again. One I had for Christmas was a toy garage which smelt most strongly of glue.

Later in the war, travelling to London (by train of course) became safer and we even attended one or two performances of a Christmas pantomime at the Coloseum theatre. However, on one occasion, probably in late 1944 when the V1/V2 bombings were quite frequent, we were caught crossing Trafalgar Square when there was an unexpected air raid warning. My grandmother who, being half Irish, was a fervent Roman Catholic, looked for an air raid shelter but finding none immediately to hand, decided with some reluctance to shelter in the adjacent church of St Martins in the Field which, of course, was Church of England. That posed her with a serious dilemma: how to shelter her grandchildren from possible physical danger but by entering a Protestant church. However, crossing herself bravely and seeking absolution from the Holy Virgin Mary for exposing us to this, to her, alien place of worship, we entered the church and waited apprehensively for the 鈥榓ll clear鈥� warning. This fortunately was not long in coming and we were able to hurry onto the theatre and pantomime, unharmed in both body and soul.

Occasionally my maternal uncle who was a little younger than my mother and a medical student in London, used to visit us. He was a lively person, inventing different activities to amuse him and us. Once he rigged up a basket suspended from a rope which, by a pulley, pulled us up to his first floor bedroom window and back again: quite exciting but our mother wasn鈥檛 so happy. He also had an air rifle which fired little pellets with which he would shoot at old light bulbs and tin cans. He would encourage me also to shoot, pretending that a light bulb, for example, was Adolf Hitler. 鈥淐ome on Tim鈥� he would call, 鈥渢here鈥檚 Adolf. Quickly take a shot at him before he escapes鈥�. And I would try to align the hanging light bulb alias Adolf, jiggling around on the rifle鈥檚 foresight and, as instructed, to squeeze rather than pull the trigger. What triumph if I succeeded and the bulb burst into pieces. 鈥淎h, finally you got him鈥� he would cry because usually it took me a long time to line up Adolf securely on the foresight. Goring was regarded as rather a laughable character and didn鈥檛 justify being executed as a light bulb or empty tin can.

I don鈥檛 recall ever going hungry and somehow our grandmother and mother managed with the food coupons. In any case, I don鈥檛 think young children really worry about food. Perhaps we were privileged as my grandfather was in the army and certainly we had a large and productive kitchen garden because he was a keen gardener, but the flowers and lawn were completely neglected. Hence my ability to acquire a complete flower bed for my desert war games described above. Food supplies seemed to improve after a while (around 1942 perhaps) because the US started to supply food (its dried egg powder made good scrambled eggs I recall). Also we had a paternal uncle who, at the outbreak of war, had escaped from France to Hollywood where he suffered immensely trying to earn his living from writing film scripts which were invariably rejected by the film producers. He sent us food parcels from time to time which caused us much excitement as they were opened. I remember delicious rich cake and dried fruit. In particular I was intrigued by the dried bananas because although I must have seen them before the war, I couldn鈥檛 remember what they looked like. My mother鈥檚 summary description of them as being yellow, long and a bit bent was hardly satisfactory. So when one day the parcel was reported to contain dried bananas, my interest was aroused. I cannot say the brownish strips of what looked like pieces of leather which my mother dropped into a pot of warm water, looked very appetising. I remember standing on a chair and peering into the pot as the pieces gradually swelled but that was about it. I didn鈥檛 even feel inclined to taste them. Eventually my mother had to agree that real bananas were not like that and I had to wait a few more years before my curiosity was satisfied.

Shopping, which I generally disliked whether for food or clothes, a feeling typical for a small boy perhaps but, more than 60 years later, I still have, was always an event to be taken seriously, particularly with its ration cards which had to be used for just about everything. Our general shopping often was done at a local village store, presided over by a stout lady who seemed to have an endless variety of produce stacked up to the ceiling. Usually I waited grumpily outside in charge of the bicycles while my mother and sister performed the transactions within. I used to while away the time by popping the blisters on the door and window frame paint until the shop keeper discovered what I was doing and bid me to stop. Shopping for clothes and shoes was even worse because my mother seemed to take ages deciding what to buy 鈥� of course the choice and what the ration entitled you to buy, were very limited. My sister was no help either as, growing up, she became more interested in clothes. One day, when I was perhaps four or five, my mother took me alone to shop for a pair of shoes for herself. There she stood in front of the mirror for what, to me, seemed a long time, turning her feet left and right. Eventually, like a typical small boy, I wanted to have a pee so I tugged at her skirt with this information to receive a sharp reply: 鈥淥h wait a minute, can鈥檛 you see that I鈥檓 trying to choose a pair of shoes.鈥� More time passed and my condition became more serious. So I tried again to meet with the same sort of reply. Eventually the call of nature simply had to be answered. The shoes were stacked up in boxes, presumably because there was no point in displaying them, and behind one such stack, in a discrete corner, I was able to relieve myself. Afterwards I went up to my mother and said 鈥淚鈥檓 alright now because I made pee in the corner there.鈥� At first the import of my words didn鈥檛 appear to sink in until she turned to me and said 鈥淲hat did you say?鈥� And I replied, 鈥淚 made pee behind those boxes there.鈥� Whereupon with the exclamation 鈥淥h my God鈥� she took me by the arm and charged out of the shop leaving shoes and shop assistant in some disarray. Furthermore, she didn鈥檛 take me shopping for some time after which, of course, was no loss to me at all.

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