大象传媒

In nineteen forty three I was seven years old although I wasn't aware of it then; the battle of Britain ; had been fought and won by us Brits - or as a later headline would state - 'it was us wot won it'. The grammer may well be incorrect but the sentiment was right. Although some of the enemie's bombers had not got the message, as yet, but they would.

As children growing up in those times meant little or nothing. All children are oblivious to world shattering events; and so they should be. Whereas the parents of those children try and put up a bold front of not being concerned; not a second goes by when any sensible parent is not shaking in their shoes. For they having an adult imagination; thereby visualising their outcome of failure.

There was no television at this time. There was only old steam radio and should any child speak or make a noise whilst the news was on --- well I'll leave the rest to your vivid imaginations, but it makes me shudder to think about it.

I rarely saw my dad, not because he was in the forces like many of my school friends' fathers. But because he was a journalist on one of Birmingham's newspapers. He had wanted to go into the services, and having received the news over "the wire" whilst he was on duty on the Birmingham Gazette that "Germany attacks the lowlands!" he was one of the first people to offer his services. But the selection board told him that he was slightly too old at 39, which upset him deeply, so badly in fact that he never fully recovered. His expectations of me were never fulfilled either which didn't help.

I can remember to this day the building of large brick and concrete structures being put up in our (and I'm sure all other) playgrounds; they were air-raid shelters. Constructed in such a way that they would have withstood a direct hit on the top - no problem! A less acurate bomb would have blown the whole blasted edifice down as the walls were only about three bricks thick. Which would have left the great lump of concrete some half a metre thick, that was the roof, to come crashing down and crush all the mummy's little darlings to a pulp! So, who was the idiot who designed these death traps? I'll bet they gave him a knighthood!

There we were, running around the playground with a cardboard box swinging at your side, this contained what was loosly referred to as "your gas mask" I tried it out once after my father had been to the loo - I came out choking, mind you whether the Germans could invent a gas stronger than that - I doubt phew!!. What I had proven to myself was - the damn things were ineffective.

This combination, of a virtually useless gas mask that impeded one's enacting one's interpretation of Roy Rogers (and Trigger) combined with the damp, smelly, dark interior of these less than protective structures left me thinking (in an unpatriotic way for a 7 year old) How are we going to win this war? Particularly when on the sounding of an air raid siren we would all troop into these so called shelters class by class, with the teacher shouting to the front of the queue "move along there we want to get in as well" He may have done but we certainly didn't.

As I explained earlier I was not the brightest of the academics, and therefore in the C Stream. What I asked myself, do we do, if outside of this 'ere shelter the bombs start to fall, it was almost as if the A and B stream needed saving, whereas we, of the thicker variety were disposable. It concerned me for all of nanosecond.

Once inside, crammed like the proverbial sardines. (Which weren't available during the war anyway) the heavy metal doors would be shut and we would be there for the duration however long that was: generally thanks to the R.A.F. not too long. However with one hurricane lamp to light the whole area you could guarantee that after about five minutes some little herbert would say in the most whining tone - "Sir excuse me sir, I want a wee sir" - the answer in a forced basso profundo was "Harris you'll have to wait for the all clear." A whine then ("but I can't wait sir, I'll wet myself sir") "Harris I am not opening that door till the all clear, if you don't shut up I'll clip your ear for you - understand?" The whine now an octave higher ("Yes sir, ooow!") Then the chorus would start "Sir how long do you think we'll be?"
"Sir what'll happen if a bomb hits us?"

This caused about ten of the mummy's boys to start to blart, which like any crowd fed the hysteria until it grew into a wail then the controlling voice of the master. "STOP this! Any more and you'll ALL stay in after school - understand." A united "Yes Sir" eventually we would be let out after the all clear had sounded.

At home, we were always kept out of any conversations regarding any danger. In those days all children were to be seen and not heard, oh for that today. We lived in North Birmingham some 5 miles out of the city, and approximately two miles from us was the largest ammunitions manufacturer in the country KYNOCKS! Which unbeknown to anybody was part of the huge imperial Chemical Industry [ICI] company.

This was in Perry Barr and from our back garden you could look down on a colossal concrete structure which was where, most days one could hear them testing amunition sometimes for two hours at a time - rat a tat - rat a tat. Machine guns firing. We got used to it. Around the plant a vast amount of anti-aircraft guns and huge searchlights that would scour the sky at night as we went to our Anderson Shelter in our Siren suits, these were all in one suits with feet and hoods, that you put on over your pyjamas as you went into the shelter.

On one of these nights, a German bomber decided he'd had enough flak for now and dropped his load, and part of his ordanance landed on a house in our road. In fact it landed on number ninety one - twelve houses from ours. My Father who had joined the A.R.P. was on duty on this particular night and part of his party was Ted, my friend John's father - they lived at number eighty nine next door to the house that had been hit.

I should explain that this 'Bomb' had not exploded, but, as you can imagine, an object weighing about 250lbs being dropped from around ten thousand feet makes a tidy mess of anything that it hits. In this case it had hit the roof of ninety one. but that didn't stop it! No, it travelled on down into the hallway and separated the gas meter from the pipes, so there was a strong smell of gas, we were reliably informed the following day. Ted also told us that around four auxiliary fire fighters were on the scene: to do what? I ask myself. My father had asked the same question, their reply was unrepeatable but it amounted to "you do your job and I'ill do mine". Ted and my dad agreed with them and left the area with alacrity.

The house occupiers, an Irish family named McGarthy, were, like all sensible folk, in their Anderson shelter, which was halfway down their back garden, and my friend John, was at this time also in his own shelter, which virtually faced the McGarthy's with only about ten yards seperating the two structures. About an hour after the bomb had landed conversations was heard coming fromn the McGarthy's shelter. It was Mrs Mac that was speaking.
"Oh! Moi God Shean!"
"What?"
"Oi fergot da por canary!"
"what about da bloody ting?"
"he"s in der wit dat bomb ting."
"Holy mudder of God are yer barmy or sumpin"
There was a pause.
"Shean"
"Wot Now?"
"Shean, do you tink he'll be upset?"
"Listen woman I am not going out der to foind out orl roit"
"Oh but Sh......!"
A huge explosion shook the very ground soil from on top of the Anderson shelter into the shelters themselves, then a sort of silence. The sort that you know will only last for a short time before voices from everywhere commence calling, but in the silence a male irish voice said
"Ye'll not have ta worry about that por little canary no more."
"ooh Shean, do'ya tink he suffered?"
John said that any response to this question was drowned out by shouts of most other people in the road as they reacted to the explosion. All asking questions of each other.

There is a postscript to this story.
Facing our houses was a large field that had been turned into allotments since the commencement of the war. Allotments they may have been, but this didn't stop children from getting through the fence and playing on there - although on pain of death had been told not to.

Two days later, following the explosion, I was over the field searching for my friend John. The field was rather large and I was some 50 yards in when I came across a wellington boot. So being a lad I kicked it, but instead of it flying through the air it moved only a few inches, I lifted the boot up to see what was inside it thinking it might be full of soil or other material. Apart from flies there was a man's foot and part of his leg inside there.

Running like hell I got out of the field, but could not think who to tell as, after all I was not supposed to be there. So I informed our next door neighbour who was in the home guard and he took control saying "you just wait here , I will go over and check". He walked briskly to the point where had indicated, I saw him bend down to pick up the boot, he dropped it, and like a punctured hot air balloon folded up in a dead faint. How would he have managed the war if he had been in the front line? I suppose he, like all the rest would become hardened to it.

John and I walked over to the same place that I had found the boot, but, there was no sign of it, I suppose they had buried it with all the other bits and pieces that remained. How did it affect me? well, at my age it is one of the few things I can recall. But I can't say it changed my life.

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