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HITLER V. A BRIGHTON SCHOOLBOY

oldbrightonboy

1. Declaration of war

2. Home Front

3. Schoolboy’s war

4. Scouting

5. War’s end

HOME FRONT

Part 2A

One thing about the war was that we were never short of advice. It came pouring in from all quarters. Posters saying 'coughs and sneezes spread diseases, catch your germs in your handkerchiefs', 'careless words cost lives' and ‘Be like Dad, keep mum’. Recipes for using powdered egg, powdered potato and dried apple rings abounded. Cartoonists provided the illustrations. Fougasse and Osbert Lancaster blossomed.

A.R.P. The initials stood for ‘air-raid precautions’. Before the war at least one of the major cigarette manufacturers produced a series of cigarette cards on precautions to take which included how to select a 'refuge room', make it gas proof and blast proof and equip it for a raid; on fighting incendiary bombs and gas attacks. Then there was the 'A.R.P’ which should have had ‘Service’ attached to it but never did. People were members of the A-R-P, (the letters were always spoken separately, not run together as were Naafi which was the acronym for Navy Army Air Force Institute. The A.R.P. was run locally by the Borough Council for the County Borough of Brighton and administered by its officers of which reluctant Alf was one.
The most lowly officer in the chain of command was the Air-raid Warden who was at risk of receiving the worst possible insult, that of being a 'proper little Hitler'. This happened when he exercised his authority and called on someone to "put that light out". In the town and in parks men were at work digging trenches in squares. Earth was banked up against the sides of corrugated iron sheets and over the roofs of the shelters. School play-grounds gave way to trenched shelters. No one knew what air raids would produce. South of the entrance to St Peter's Church a large rectangular reservoir appeared. Travelled people suggested it gave the Church a Taj Mahal image. Less evocative tanks appeared on other vacant sites. No doubt some War Emergency Regulation empowered local authorities to provide shelters and water wherever they thought fit.
Holes appeared in the Palace and West Piers, too. Engineers cut or blew up the girders and formed gaps intended to prevent invaders from running along the piers, onto the promenade and into town. The beaches were all mined, anti-landing craft spikes dug in and coils of barbed wire concertinaed along the promenade. It all looked very bleak in winter. In the summer the pebbles and thick black oil thrown up by the winter waves were stuck together in patches on the paving slabs under the wire. Oil from numerous destroyed ships all seemed to gravitate to the Brighton sea-ashore from which it was short jump to the promenade.
Public buildings had sandbags laid like bricks, neatly bonded, into tapering walls in front of the walls of the building. The windows, like those of many homes including 90 Stanmer Villas, had inch wide strips of linen tape pasted on them in diamond or square patterns to reduce the risk of injury to people from flying glass from bomb-blast.
We boys all learned to identify aircraft. At school charts with silhouettes of friendly and enemy aircraft; plans, elevations and ‘banking’ appeared on the walls in rooms used for civil defence purposes and those given over to the Air Training Corps (ATC). Before long we knew engine sounds, too. Magazines were published which were devoted to aircraft. Penguin Books produced Aircraft Recognition by R A Savill-Sneath which was revised as new aircragt appeared. We all wanted to be members of the Royal Observer Corps and stand with binoculars on roof-tops scanning horizons. That was immediate wish; we wanted when old enough to join the RAF.

Gas masks. Gas attacks were everyone's nightmare. When war was imminent all living in the Hollingbury area trooped to Hertford Road School for mask fittings. They came in three sizes and there were special bags in which one put babies. Mums worked bellows which filtered the air needed for them to breathe. Gas masks were put on for our ‘fittings’ by a person with minimal training, the strap adjusted over one's head, fingers inserted under one's chin and a pad placed under the filter for the test. If, when one was instructed to breathe in, the cheeks of the mask deflated and one couldn't breathe, it fitted. "How's that?" one was asked and one made an inaudible response. When the right size had been fitted one was provided with a cardboard box on a string in which to carry the mask which one had to have with one at all times. Members of the ARP had masks with glazed openings to see through and members of the military services had even more elaborate masks with flexible tube and separate filter in a corrugated tin container which rested in the canvas bag worn on the chest.

Black-out. We had been instructed about the blackout which was to run from dusk to dawn. Not a glimmer must be revealed to passing enemy (or friendly) aircraft. Public buildings had dark lobbies between internal lights and external doors. Many houses had heavy curtains against outside doors and dim lights in the hall. Alf exercised economy with security and removed the hall light bulb much to Aunt Nellie’s annoyance. For virtually the whole of the war we were to move from living room to first floor in the dark . The house had never had electric light on the landing so we were used to feeling our way from a bedroom to bathroom.
Now we were being trained to grope our way almost everywhere whilst in the house. Indeed, our only properly blacked out room was to be our living/dining-room at the back of the house. Even the kitchen where the cooker and sink were, (which Alf always a called the scullery), was to use light borrowed from the living room. Alf’s argument was that our cooked meal was at midday and one did not need much light to boil a kettle for tea or a hot water bottle. At least, I think that would have been his argument if the matter had reached the point of debate. Aunt Nellie seldom argued with her eldest brother; there were occasions but I don't think blackout was one of them.
So, we were to go from living room to bedroom through dark areas and so to bed without a light or, later I think, with a low wattage bulb and thicker curtains. No reading in bed. There was no heating, except in the living room so pots de chamber were used as they were the utensils which kept one out of bed for the shortest possible time.
There was to be no light in the bathroom as the room was not blacked out so during the winter we took baths during the day. My 1941 diary records that on Sunday 19th January; ‘In the morning I had a bath’ before going round to Geoff’s house to find out what time we had to report for Baden Powell’s funeral service. BP having died on the 8th. One bath a week was the norm in those days and mine was to be on Saturday or Sunday in the mandatory maximum 5inch depth of water. I don't think all householders lived like that. It was just Alf’s refusal to defer to the war of which he never approved and which he considered had been contrived to cause him maximum inconvenience. He had been through one and that was enough.

So much for he theory. When it came to practise we found that outside, after dark, it was very dark. No street lights, no light from the houses and such few moving vehicles as there were, even in central Brighton where we seldom went, had visors rather like those of a medieval knight. The horizontal slits had horizontal ‘eye-lids’ to prevent the light doing more than illuminate the road a few feet ahead. None must go up to the ever watchful enemy airman. The bumpers, edges of mudguards and running boards of vehicles had white bands painted on them as had edges of some curbs, lamp-posts and items of street furniture which might present a hazard. But even with all these aids driving must have been difficult to say the least. On the few occasions I sat in the front seat of a bus I could see nothing and I marvelled at the driver. The interiors of buses were dim, almost unlit.
On foot we walked off curbs, (only a few were whitened), and into closed iron gates and fell on our faces. Geoff turned right before the end of a wall in Hollingbury Rise West did and broke a front tooth as it came in contact with the wall. Not to mention cuts and bruises. I had poor night vision so life was particularly difficult after dark. I hated the steep descent through the Beech Wood from school with its projecting roots and unpredictably slippery bits but I resented the longer walk round Hollingbury Rise West.
The advice given by whichever government department was responsible for such matters was, when moving about in the dark, hold one arm out in front bent lightly at the elbow, diagonally across your body and face as protection. Hold the other arm, palm facing forward, as a feeler. Much the same stance as a boxer. I adopt that stance even now when uncertain of the position of obstacles in a dark room.
Another piece of advice was how to identify your door-key in the dark. We were advised to file notches in the edge of the finger-piece of the key which could be felt with the finger-nail. It worked provided one could remember which key had which number of notches.

Rail travel. We were discouraged from travelling. One of the posters on the hoardings and notice-boards enquired; 'Is your journey really necessary?' We regarded occasional journeys to Shoreham, to visit the Philips, as ‘necessary’ and the train was marginally faster than the bus.
Travelling on the railway could be hazardous. Stations were unlit and all station names had been removed to confuse visiting German spies. So, where was one? There was very little, if any, lighting in the carriages as it would assist the assumed lurking enemy bombers when carriage doors were opened at stations. Add together the blackout at stations and poorly lit coaches and the need for great care when disembarking becomes obvious. Furthermore, unless one knew the line one could leave the train at the wrong station and, if doubly unlucky, one could leave from the non-platform side. Falls from carriage to track were not unknown.
Early in the war we heard, for the first time, announcements over loud-speakers. Until that time announcements had been made by the station-master or a porter from the platform. Now at stations such as Brighton, they were disembodied, well enunciated women’s voices. Technology and sexual equality were advancing.
Trains seldom ran on time. Air-raids could damage track so that diversions were necessary. Infrequently (if ever!) maintained rolling-stop broke down and..…. just ran late. Anyone sufficiently disgruntled to grumble was reminded that there was a war on. 'Don't you know there's the war on' was a reflex response to any complaint about anything or nothing.

War effort came in many forms. In addition to taking sixpences to school to buy National Savings stamps there were the various 'drives'. Lord Beaverbrook who was Minister for Supply (I think) ordered a drive for aluminium for aircraft construction. Households turned out ageing saucepans and kettles for all they were worth but kitchen utensil stocks were finite so there was a quest for ferrous metal. I hope some of it proved useful because it probably did more to aggravate post-war city centre decay than any other initiative. Front garden railings disappeared leaving gaps which were ultimately filled with tacky timber screens or crude concrete block walls. There are tales of the salvaged iron are being dumped in the sea. It was all part of 'war effort'. The useful and ornamental cast-iron railings around the basement areas of numerous town houses and splendid gates to country estates were burned off and removed.
These initiatives concentrated our minds and, I suppose, gave us a sense of purpose and something positive to do. We needed a purpose. If it created the spirit which beat Hitler, and it may have helped, it was worth it. But the price was high.

Dunbar Mason was one of the first casualties of war who came close to home. His mother, recently widowed, did some occasional cleaning for us. Dunbar was in air crew in the RAF. A tall, heavily built man, I met him only once or twice and he was gone. It was the talk of the Villas. Probably our first. There was great concern for Mrs Mason who had puffy eyes and seemed to be round-shouldered almost overnight. She moved not long after Dunbar's death.

Gas masks were now on active service. When the war started and for a year or so after we were warned that we would be sent home from school if we arrived without our gas mask. However, one soon discovered that after one or two showers and normal use by a clumsy and careless boy the cardboard box in which one was supposed to carry the gas mask dissolved. So most of us acquired small boxes, like fibre mini-suitcases, as replacements. My preferred model was the tin cylinder which looked much like those used by the German army as seen on the newsreels. I came by one such. A swop, I think. I was rather proud of it. We were told that the all-important air-filter could be damaged if the mask was dropped on a hard surface. Many fell on granite cloakroom floors and tarmac roads. Thank heavens the masks did not have to be used.
As the years went by sandwiches sometimes replaced masks and school staff tended to turn a blind eye to an absent mask and contents inspections ceased.

The Battle of Britain could be seen from the top step of 90 Stanmer Villas looking south towards the sea but higher, to the sky. We saw British and German aircraft, mostly fighters, circling above and below each other. There were bursts of fire; rat tat tat, rat tat tat. Sometimes the circles were very tight. We could recognise the types of aircraft. All teenagers could. When they were nearer the sound was pop pop pop rather than rat tat tat.
Aircraft engines would falter, splutter and stop. An aircraft would lose height, gliding down, sometimes, drop nose first towards the sea. Airmen bailed out and floated down under their parachutes. At least one hurtled down under a parachute which failed to open properly, the silk flapping and billowing, caught up in itself. We could not see its end.
My diary for 30 April 1941 records; ‘Saw some planes crash, several men were killed. One crashed at bottom of Roedale Road.’ We ran down to see it. We cheered when German aircraft were shot down and stood by quiet, tight lipped and dry mouthed when it was British. More German than British were destroyed but they had more and we knew it even if we were reluctant to admit it. The battles lasted only a few days. The main flight path must have been further east than Brighton. We saw only the fringe.
That was our first encounter with 'the enemy' in person. It brought home to me how close the war was but we were excited rather than nervous. Excitement born out of the ignorance of what war really meant. We could not identify with the columns of refugees we had seen on newsreels, pushing their belongings on hand-carts and being straffed by German aircraft. That had no relevance to us and we did not believe it could happen to us. At this time our only other contact with the enemy was over the airwaves via our radios.
Both sides used leaflet 'drops' from aircraft and broadcast 'news' on wave-bands audible to the populations of the enemy. Serious punishment awaited people in German occupied countries caught listening to British broadcasts but the British exercised their sense of humour and were encouraged to laugh at the German news presenters. At the same time we were discouraged from listening. There appeared to be a contradiction. The best known subversive broadcaster was William Joyce who became known as Lord Haw-Haw because of his upper-class drawl; "Germany calling, Germany calling………………" were his opening words as he announced his place on the airwaves. Most people knew where to find him and, despite strong suggestions that we should not listen to him, we tuned in from time to time until we became bored. His 'news' was described as propaganda which, of course, it was. German spies were believed to be everywhere and Joyce was believed to have provided proof of their intelligence.
Watching the dog-fights over Brighton provided us with some idea of the fallibility of news broadcasts. When Joyce talked of the destruction of the RAF we knew better but we had a pretty good idea that the high scores of enemy aircraft destroyed, as given by the ´óÏó´«Ã½, were exaggerated, too. It was rumoured that Joyce had claimed that the clock on the Alan West's factory was half-an hour fast (or something of the sort). I never knew if what he said was correct or if he actually said it. The patriotic course of action was to ridicule him but some of his news was believed. After the war he was hanged as a traitor. One of relatively few such traitors executed by the British.

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