大象传媒

Wartime Childhood in a Northumberland Village by Bill Ricalton

It was in 1940 that we had a very severe winter. The walk to school was made through mountains of snow, no doubt magnified in scale against a child's body. The army was by then appearing in the village. Contractors were building barracks to accommodate them. Barricades were erected; gas mask drill and air raid precautions became part of the school curriculum. The grass surface of the village green was removed.
Longhorsley was then no longer a sleepy village but a military garrison. A guardroom and sentry box were erected on the corner of the green near the butcher's shop. Two nissen huts built along the side nearest the school became the NAAFI and soldiers mess.
In what is now Drummonds Close, the barrack huts were built, the old tithe barn became an ammunition store. A large gravel park for the army lorries was sited at the bottom of the common, and later massive concrete tank parks were located at the top. The ARP, the Home Guard, the Observer Corps and the Red Cross were all serving in the village.
Later, after the tank parks were built, came the Armoured Corps. Whenever we youngsters got the opportunity, we would go up to the common and persuade a soldier to give us a ride in one of their tracked monsters.
The army built a miniature firing range in the quarry at the top of the common where the tank gunners practiced their gunnery skills. When the range was not in use, we went up and collected as many of the spent .22 bullets that we could find. We melted the lead from them to use as arrowheads on our homemade willow arrows.
An early act of the war years was the cutting down of the hardwood trees, which lined the hedge on the south side of the common. The Observer Corp had built an observation post at the top of 鈥楽torey鈥檚 hilly field鈥� and apparently those magnificent old trees restricted the view, so down they came.
Mr C Webb of Horsley Tower was, I believe, the Chief Observer. Pat, his son, was one of my playmates during those war years. I do not know where Pat got an idea from; perhaps it was something he had overheard, for he was convinced that there was a secret room in the tower. At every opportunity we investigated his theory.
When the war ended a very excited friend approached me one day. He shouted, 鈥淚 told you there was a secret room,鈥� as he rushed me off in the direction of the tower and the garage. Pat carefully removed the tools and bottles from the shelves in the corner of the garage, and then removed the shelf, which revealed a catch. The catch was unhooked and the panel moved to reveal a door behind. It was with some triumph that we opened the door to find a small-soundproofed room complete with wireless and accessories.
Young people are nothing if they are not inquisitive, and my generation was no exception. We had noticed that a number of the young men in the village had a tiny shield shaped badge in their coat lapels. Written across the middle was the number 202 in very small figures. Mr T Clark of Paxton Dene farm was one of these young men who displayed that badge. Numerous requests to him over the years to enlighten us to its significance were at worst met with a stony silence, or at best a negative 鈥淵ou'll get to know when you are a bit older鈥�.
I cannot remember who was credited with the original discovery, but I recall a group of us going down the burn and into the Paxton Dene. We climbed up the wooded hill from the burn side for perhaps fifty or sixty yards. Beside the base of a large tree our 'gang' leader stopped and cleaned away decayed grass and leaves with his hands, which exposed a wooden door with a handle on it. When the door was opened it revealed a concrete shaft, maybe about two to three feet square. A metal rung ladder was attached to the side and disappeared into the darkness below. Again I can鈥檛 remember what was used for light but I seem to recall it was candles. Anyway we all descended the steps and into the tunnel below. The bottom of the iron ladder must have been eight feet or more below the trap door. Leading from the bottom was a concrete tunnel, large enough for a grown man to stand up.
We were to visit this place many times over the next few years, sometimes to just sit and talk and wonder why it was there and what it was for.
As an adult many years later, I was in conversation with Tom Clark, and I asked him if he would now tell me what the lapel badge was for. Tom then told me the background to it all and the reason for the secrecy during those war years.
The plan was that if an invasion occurred they were to go underground and only 鈥榮urface鈥� at night, when they would execute the acts of sabotage. I can recollect the look on his face when I told him about our visits to the local underground refuge. He said, 鈥淗ell! That was highly secret.鈥� A very cold shiver went down my spine when he told me the contents of those locked rooms. Food, water and HIGH EXPLOSIVES!
With all the soldiers, military vehicles, tanks and ordnance around at that time it was a miracle no one was fatally injured. From the Mill bridge to the west along the burn side the army had built an obstacle course. A rope ladder was installed from the burn side to the bridge parapet. There were ropes hanging from trees, massive wood climbing frames, water jumps and barbed wire obstacles.
One particularly fearsome obstacle consisted of posts about eighteen inches high, from the tops of which was strung barbed wire. The soldiers had to crawl under the barbed wire, whilst machine guns using live ammunition were fired in a fixed arc over the top. On occasions we witnessed these activities from not a very safe distance.
At the end of the training day we traced the route of the obstacle course and collected the unspent ammunition and thunderflashes, which had fallen from the soldiers鈥� ammunition pouches during the run. Occasionally we acquired a substantial arsenal in the process. For those who are not familiar with a thunderflash it was just like a firework banger, only bigger, much bigger. They were about two inches in diameter and about ten inches long and would bite if handled incorrectly. They could easily amputate the hand of anyone holding it.
On many occasions we had scores of thunderflashes and enough ammunition to fight a war. Many battles were fought between us, using the big 鈥榖angers鈥� as hand grenades. We did have a use for them though. We found a large pool at the burn, threw in a thunderflash, waited a few moments and collected the trout that floated to the surface.
One major engineering feat we completed was a swimming pool. We dug away the banks of the burn and made a dam. The result was quite a large deep swimming pool. Many happy days were spent by that pool in the long endless weeks of sunshine we only seemed to remember when we were young. It was on one of those occasions that I had my one and only, albeit nearly disastrous episode with a thunderflash.
It was a characteristically fine evening as we alternated between the swimming pool and the campfire, interspersed with the odd discharge of a thunderflash we had in our arsenal. I had a one that refused to ignite on the striker, so I stuck the end in the fire for a few moments. It still did not ignite. I threw it away, thinking it was a dud. It hadn't travelled three feet when there was a massive explosion and blinding flash, followed a second or two later by a nasty 鈥榖rown鈥� smell.
During the war there was understandably a blackout and as there was an army camp in the village, sentries were posted; a dangerous mixture total darkness and armed guards, one of armed sentries was posted on the edge of the village green.
It was after dark and we were playing chase. A few being chased up from the direction of the Post Office to the village green. 鈥淗ALT WHO GOES THERE?鈥� cried the sentry, 鈥淎dolph Shicklegruber鈥�, replied the lead runner and ran on.
Crack went the rifle followed instantly by the whistle as the 303 rifle bullet richocheted off the vicarage garden wall. Fortunately the sentry鈥檚 aim was no better than his sense of humour. If you wondered how fast you could travel wriggling on your stomach, and had been present that night, 100mph might not be far from the mark. For over an hour the participants lay hiding in the bushes by the school, hearts racing and faces lilywhite from shock, before having the courage to make for home.
Another episode I can recollect involved some detonators. Some explosive detonators had been 鈥榓cquired鈥� from somewhere. One had found its way to Hedley Wood farm where 鈥楪allagher鈥� Thompson worked. He was shown it in the dark cow byre and without thinking struck a match to examine it more closely. The ensuing explosion removed the ends from two fingers and a thumb.
Hurried detective worked traced the remaining detonators and when the army personnel recovered them from the trouser pockets of the 鈥榢eeper鈥� there was relief all around. The following day we had a school lecture from an army officer about the dangers of touching anything to do with explosive devices. He said there had been enough of them in the pocket of John Arris which, had they gone off, meant he would have been lucky to survive without losing a leg. Also, because of his body heat, it was only good fortune which had intervened to prevent a catastrophe. We stuck to fishing with thunderflashes and throwing rifle cartridges into the campfire after that.
Longhorsley was the home for many evacuees who had been sent to the comparative peace of the country and away from the dangers of Newcastle. Because peaceful it was, despite the noise as each army convoy appeared to pass endlessly through the village. The army manoeuvres and Home Guard exercises were but a side show to much of the village life. The harvest was gathered in, and the hay made and stored. Pigs were fed and slaughtered, the bacon cured, and the hens fed and lost to the fox. We dug the gardens (for victory) and ate the young potatoes, grown in rich farm manure. Fruit was picked and bottled or made into jam.
I remember the night six bombs were dropped, harmlessly, near to The Birks farm. All fell in a straight line, which suggested the potential target as the army camp at Linden Hall. I recall the school playtime, when four Spitfires roared over the village as they climbed into the western sky from the airfield at Eshott. Only moments before, Father Wright emerged from the Presbytery with his ARP helmet covering his grey hair and a gas mask container strapped to his chest. A loud blast from his whistle warned us of an air raid. I however, had barely reached the safety of the air raid shelter before he sounded the all clear.
I think I slept in the air raid shelter for the duration of the war. It was one designed for the purpose, with a thick steel top supported on four heavy steel legs with metal bands around the circumference. Even a spring mattress of sorts although not very comfortable, was installed inside which made us feel warm and secure. We could often hear the distinctive drone of the enemy aircraft as they passed overhead. We heard occasional burst of anti aircraft fire as the intruder(s) were illuminated by the battery of searchlights, which were stationed down the Paxton Dene road. This would sometimes occur after an air raid warning, and for some reason without notice.
鈥淭hat's not one of ours,鈥� I said one night at about eight o'clock.
鈥淒on't be silly,鈥� was my mothers reply, 鈥渨e haven't had an air raid warning.鈥� I was not reassured and dived for the shelter. The house shook and the windows rattled as the bomb went off. Only one but enough. We were told the next day that 鈥楯erry鈥� had dropped a land mine at Tritlington.
To be helping in the hay field on a warm summer day was always a great pleasure. The smell of new made hay; the clank of the hay rake as it deposited its collection in the winrow; tea time, when the farmer鈥檚 wife brought the tea to the hay field; freshly made fruit scones layered with fresh home made butter and raspberry jam. Who knew or cared about cholesterol then, as we all sat around a new made pike wearing a hat made from a white handkerchief knotted on four corners to protect us from the sun, and washing the food down with rich fresh milk?
It was said that we went to church on three Sundays after the hay was piked, before it was stacked. Again we would be on hand to help, kicking the pike bottom before running round it with the chain, which pulled it onto the bogie. Then came the ride back, with legs dangling off the back of the bogie as the horse hauled its load back to the farm. The war and Hitler could have been a million miles away as far as we were concerned. Thereafter, hay making was never the same after the 鈥榥ew fangled鈥� machines appeared.
The Home Guard exercised in preparation for the invasion, which thankfully never came. Long lattice trailers carrying aircraft or the remains continued to pass through the village. It seemed the Royal Air Force were taking these crashed machines for salvage or repair in ever increasing numbers. The cry would go out, 鈥淎 鈥楽pits鈥� down,鈥� at wherever, and off we would go to investigate and collect some souvenirs. The pieces of perspex canopy were collected, cut, shaped, polished and fashioned into a ring, ready to be presented to the latest 鈥榞irlfriend鈥�.
It was on one of those expeditions that I first saw human remains. A Spitfire had exploded in mid air and the wreckage was scattered over three fields between View Law farm and The Birks. There was a large crater in soft ground on the left through the first gate, where we were told the engine had gone in. It was not long before Royal Air Force personnel arrived and began retrieving the wreckage. Some had a bag in which they put the remains of the young pilot. We went home that day in silence without any souvenirs.
In our garden we had a rather good gooseberry bush, heavy with fruit. Remember the tale, 鈥淒on't eat them the're not ripe, you'll get 鈥榩endisitus,鈥� and when they were ripe, 鈥淟eave them, I want them for jam.鈥� I recall they were ready for jam, and at this time the Home Guard was having an exercise. This particular event appeared to be in the method of house-to-house warfare and the Home Guard always seemed to carry out these exercises on a Sunday. I suppose that was logical as they all had normal weekday jobs. Anyway, two of the 鈥榚nemy鈥� secreted themselves in our garden. As the 鈥榖attle鈥� intensified the hiding place of the two 鈥榠nvaders鈥� was discovered and a thunderflash was lobbed over the hedge to remove them from the fray. As bad luck would have it, it landed right in our gooseberry bush. The resulting explosion removed everything including the leaves, so we got no jam that year, and in fact I never got a single 鈥榞oosegog鈥�. Still I suppose that could all be put down to part of the war effort.
At long last the war drew to a close. In preparation for the celebrations, trailer loads of timber were lead from an old wood at West Moor farm. Load after load of whole tree trunks were piled high. The biggest bonfire probably ever seen in this village was lit on the top of the common on the evening of the 8th May 1945, VE night.
Not unnaturally there was great singing, dancing and merry making on the dance floor of the then redundant tank park. Soldiers detonated more thunderflashes than it was possible for any man to count. Whole boxes of rifle ammunition were thrown on the fire and the cacophony was almost unbearable. Fred Pinchin was carried away having collapsed from the heat of the fire, or was it the drink? The celebrations went on well into the night. I could barely remember a night when so much as a candle was visible, yet the glow from bonfires could be seen for miles around. There was a bright glow in the night sky towards the west, when someone said it was the Blackpool illuminations. I remember thinking as I walked home that I didn't know they had electricity at Blackpool Farm!

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