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WW2 Recollections: A schoolboy recalls wartime Nuneaton
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It was September 1939, For me the war and the Grammar School started together, I was in Form 3a which seemed to be for boys who had passed the scholarship and Form 3b for fee paying boys, although at the end of each year there was promotion and relegation if warranted. I discovered that they were not "Snobs" as I had been led to believe but that donning that black barathea blazer and cap meant that you were immediately set aside by the rest of the community: with pride by your relatives and their friends, but to every other kid you were a "Grammarbug" and someone who thought he was better than anyone else. Your cap, which you were obliged to wear at all times was a target to be snatched from your head as a trophy to taunt you with. It was perhaps why Boxing-"The Noble Art of Self Defence" was on our curriculum, but faced with this universal challenge we soon learned to stick together. One lunchtime when my pal Robin Tollast and I were walking through Riversley Park his cap was snatched by a local lout. Cliff Aldridge. the school vice-captain happened to come by and ordered him to give it back and was told to put his fists up. We knew that Cliff was the School Boxing Captain and held his coat in anticipation. We were not disappointed. After taking five or six punches and landing nothing in return, the bully threw down the cap and made off.

The outbreak of war meant that several masters went straight into the forces with the result that there was no one to teach us Latin or German and there were no materials for either woodwork or metalwork. The Physics master too had volunteered and "Crum" Brown, whose subject was Chemistry had to take this on. When he came to teach us, he told us that he kept one week ahead of us in the set books, but in the end the pupils he taught secured record numbers of Distinctions in both subjects, demonstrating dramatically that the results reflected the teachers and not the pupils, given that we were of fairly even ability. We did not know at the time that our Mathematics master "Ticker" Whittaker, was a Conscientious Objector, which must have taken a lot of courage at that time, but I for one am grateful as he was a gifted teacher although his beliefs did not stop him caning us-even for getting our Algebra wrong! Later we were to have women teachers!

Initially we had "Nap" Gale to teach us Science. He was a disciplinarian and wrote on the blackboard at a furious rate for us to copy and when lunch-time came, he would walk out saying that we could go when we had finished, leaving us dipping our nibs in the inkwells and scratching away furiously. The ball-point pen had not yet arrived, although most of us also had fountain pens of varying reliability. Sport featured strongly in our activities. The strong athletic types had status and the Head Boy was nearly always an athlete rather than an academic. Boxing was part of the curriculum and there was an annual school tournament. We wore huge gloves, sixteen ounce I think, but after three two minute rounds they seemed like a lead weights and a major effort was required even to raise your arms. There were some bloody battles but no one finished up in hospital.

The first effect of the war was that food was rationed. Bananas and chocolate disappeared and the allowance of butter, tea and sugar was tiny, something like two ounces each, but we always had our daily third of a pint bottles of milk at school sipped through a straw and my parents gave me the butter and had the margarine themselves. We were all issued with gas masks in strong cardboard boxes which we were supposed to take everywhere and houses with gardens had Anderson Shelters. These were curved galvanised sheets of steel which were put together like a meccano and half buried in the garden and then covered with soil. It was not too long before we were to be thankful that we had them.

The bombing started in 1940 and Coventry was a prime target, but on the 17th May 1941 Nuneaton took that role. My father was at work and my Uncle Joe at Crewe later read a report of my father risking his life to shunt ammunition wagons to safety away from burning coaches. Amazingly whilst High Explosive bombs, land mines and incendiaries were raining down on the town, my mother and I were in bed fast asleep! Bill Hambley our neighbour was beating on our front door with both fists for fifteen minutes before he could wake us! He then told us to shelter under the stairs until there was a lull, at which stage we scurried into the Hambley's Anderson Shelter at the bottom of their garden whilst Bill went back to patrol the street for incendiaries. A house up the street was in fact gutted by fire and Bill who climbed a drainpipe to check that no one was inside got a nasty electric shock and came to lie down for a short time. The bombs whistled down, seemingly exploding all around us, Dolly Hambley cursing the Germans fairly politely and it was frightening, but we were in the safest place. At last, as dawn broke the siren sounded the all clear and we came out for the universal remedy-a cup of tea, brewed with the aid of a Primus Stove as gas and electricity were cut off. Many of the roofs had holes in them. I thought ours had escaped but on going into my mothers bedroom I found a large hole where a heavy rock had smashed through roof and ceiling on to my mother's bed and bounced onto the floor. Had Bill Hambley not awakened us my mother would almost certainly been killed.

Later on Tony Collett, one of my classmates, came round and suggested we went down to school to see if we could retrieve our books as Church St and the school had been badly damaged. I got my bike and satchel and we set off. We couldn't do much riding because the streets were littered with debris: glass and broken bricks and a pervading smell of plaster dust. The town centre was inaccessible so we went via Newtown Rd and Wheat St. The school was in a mess and we got into our classroom to find wooden beams at grotesque angles and our desks overturned with books spilling out. We sorted through and picked out our books from the debris, cramming them into our satchels. I reluctantly gave up trying to find my large atlas and we returned to our bikes when we noticed some men down in the school field. They saw us and gesticulated fiercely. We beat a quick retreat down King Edward Rd. only to meet an irate Air Raid Warden who demanded to know where we had been. We explained that we had been to retrieve our text books. "Can't you bloody well read?" he asked, pointing to a piece of wood measuring at most six inches by four, propped against two bricks in the middle of the road.The chalked inscription read 'Danger-Unexploded Bomb' ! The men who had waved at us were the Bomb Disposal Squad. Had it gone off whilst we were in our classroom we would have been buried. We went on our way giggling.

The bombing technique the Germans used was to fly along a wireless beam, emitted from Northern German occupied territories until they encountered a second beam emitted from a southern site and then, obeying their orders without question. they released their bombs. Eventually the British tumbled to this and cunningly devised a way of "bending" these beams with some odd results, the most notable being the bombing of neutral Dublin, ablaze with lights, instead of blacked out Belfast! I suspect that the bombs that fell on Nuneaton were intended for Coventry, although our large railway marshalling yard could have been the target.. However, our school was declared unsafe and whilst it was being repaired we were instructed to report to The Nuneaton High School for GIRLS!
Not that we were all there at the same time. The girls did a morning shift and we did an afternoon shift. This meant sharing desks and most of us soon found notes in our desks from the girls telling us who they were and asking about us. My partner was Sheila Soden who lived at Bulkington and we arranged to meet. I cycled the three or four miles with one of my pals who discreetly waited well out of sight. Sheila lived in a very large corner house in the middle of the village and sneaked out from large double doors. She was a pretty girl and we chatted about things of mutual interest. However, this little romance soon foundered in that we were in a sense-"living together" . The problem was that the desk was not big enough and we were supposed to take ALL our books home each night which verged on the impossible, but somehow the girls took more home than the boys - maybe their teachers were stricter?- but I amongst others got notes which at first were polite but daily grew more strident as I arranged and rearranged my books trying to make them look less bulky- to no avail. In time, enough repairs were done for most of the boys to return to King Edward Rd but the fifth and sixth forms remained at the High School returning to normal hours and that included me.

Discipline at the Grammar School was arbitary. I was one of the most caned boys in my class and yet I was by no stretch of the imagination a "naughty boy"-.I probably had a cheeky grin? Teachers seemed to think that occasional flogging helped maintain discipline and rarely went into detail on who was really responsible for any incident. Not that anyone ever protested their innocence. It certainly didn't seem a good idea at the time and there was an element of esteem involved, although I still feel resentment at being caned unjustly. Amazingly School Prefects were also allowed to cane, although only if a committee of prefects considered it a just punishment and I never suffered this indignity. Caning was usually on the backside and left weals but looking back I realize that the best disciplinarians rarely caned.

Whilst there was little opportunity for social life, one exception was Ballroom Dancing which was the only "approved" meeting place for young boys and girls. Encouraged by my mother whilst I was still in the fifth form, I went to Dancing Classes with three or four of my classmates. George and Nelly Rymell charged half a crown (25p) a session. This was in Newdigate Buildings, a Dickensian type of building and the "Ballroom" was up three flights of rickety, creaking, wooden, spiral stairs. Boys were assembled at one end and girls at the other, and George and Nellie assisted by Mrs Carter would demonstrate some steps. An appropriate Victor Sylvester record was put on and we were compelled to attempt the steps together! Nellie or Mrs Carter would cut in occasionally and encouraged us, but despite feet being trodden on, numerous apologies from both partners, it worked surprisingly well. In ballroom dancing you hold your partner close, which we did. It was far removed from the modern remote style and much more fun. Dancing to records however was the last resort. It was an era of live music. Billy Riley and Les Pearce were the two bands of repute. Their style echoed Glen Miller but despite being limited to trumpet, saxaphone or clarinet, trombone, piano, base and drums the sextet sounded as if there were at least a dozen and by the end of the evening an intensely vibrant atmosphere was created, with such tunes as "The Woodchoppers Ball"
The climax to these dances was The Last Waltz and you strained every muscle to ask the girl that you wanted to walk home.

Harvest Camps

Because of the U-Boat blockade, home food production was vital and posters exhorted all and sundry to "Dig for Victory" This included digging up lawns and sowing potatoes etc. Shelagh's father, I later learned, despite working long hours, also dug three large allotments! We older schoolboys were encouraged to attend Harvest Camps to help gather in the corn as the task was then very labour intensive and the men were away at war. The first camp I went to was at Claverdon, near Henley in Arden where we slept in army bell tents by the side of a large, well equipped Scout hut. We were to be paid four old pence an hour but when it was calculated that our wages would barely cover our keep, our Headmaster, Mr Pratt, cycled around the farms and successfully negotiated sixpence an hour with all of the farmers but one, who thought that we would work for nothing! He got no help.

I reported with two or three others to the farm nearest our camp, opposite the church. To start with we were all "stooking", that is following the binder machine and propping the sheaves of corn together in sixes to let the wind blow through them to dry them out. It was hard work but we were young and quickly learned to pace ourselves. When it came to gathering in, the farmer looked dubiously at me and said that he didn't know what job to give me as I was too small
(I am now a six footer!). He thought for a moment and then made me Waggoner. This meant that I had to couple up the huge chain horse in front of the other one and then guide the two horses pulling the full load of corn to the rick where it was to be stored until it could be threshed and then ride the chain horse back to the field and other cart. I had never been close to horses before and they towered frighteningly above me, but I did what I was told, trying to appear in charge and, much to my surprise, the horses responded. The difficult bit was that you had to manoevre the cart without any of the sheaves falling off and since they were loaded to a great height and the ground undulated, there was a knack to it and so I was relieved to complete my spell at this without mishap and was then considered worth a try as loader. This meant being on top of the cart, amidst flying pitchfork prongs (Barry Peat got one through his hand) and stacking the sheaves in an interlocking pattern so that a high load could be accommodated on the cart without any sheaves falling off and although others had loads slip, mine never did and my standing with the farmer increased.

Wet weather or even heavy dew meant that we were found other tasks until the corn was dry. I recall two of these clearly. The first was catching the sheep after they had been rounded up into a barn and holding them whilst any dung was clipped from their wool as this attracted flies who laid their eggs in it and the resultant maggots would tunnel into the sheep鈥檚 back and had to be got out and Jeyes Fluid rubbed in. Our task was to hold the sheep whilst this was done, The farmer said that he would give me sixpence if I could hold the tup, the father of the lambs and to his surprise I did it although the truth was that the creature actually wriggled free but momentarily stood still, enabling me to hurl myself on him and take a fresh grip, but I got my sixpence. The other job was plum picking. The plums were very sweet and to my joy I was told that I could eat as many as I wanted. This was a new situation for me in a period when anything nice was rationed and despite having been warned I ate greedily. That night we went to the pictures. I didn't see all of it as I was dashing to and fro to the lavatory. Back at camp I was violently sick and taken into the scout hut and put to bed feeling close to death. Early next morning however my eyes flicked open and I was immediately aware of the birds singing and felt a never to be repeated sense of alertness and well-being. After a hearty breakfast, my demeanour was soon noted on the farm where I was pitching sheaves from one end of the rick to the other with a precision that drew comment from the farm workers and this feeling lasted until after lunchtime but it was an experience that I have never forgotten. We sometimes ate our lunchtime sandwiches in a haybarn watching rats up to a foot long scurrying to and fro between the ricks and totally ignoring us. The farm dogs had a field day when the corn was harvested. One evening about fifteen of us cycled to Stratford Memorial Theatre to see
鈥淎 Midsummer Night鈥檚 Dream鈥� but en route my chain came off and I arrived after the others. I booked for the Balcony as planned, it was only half full, but there was no sign of the rest of the party. After the performance I met up with them and they had been told that the Balcony was sold out and only dearer seats available! As the end of the six week camp drew near and the weather was good, we worked longer and longer hours to get the corn harvested, which we did and approached the reckoning with some satisfaction, " Don't worry about adding up your hours my lad, you've done very well- here you are" said the old farmer. He gave me thirty shillings. I hadn't the heart or nerve to tell him that I'd actually earned more!

The following year the camp was at Wormleighton near Fenny Compton and again we were under canvas but this year we were upmarket as the dining facilities were inside a sixteenth century Manor House. Norman Painting, of The Archer's fame, was also there. He was about to leave our school and go to University and was helping with the Admin. Farming here was quite different as they had Combine Harvesters which we had not seen before, thus eliminating manual labour and so I found myself cycling two or three miles to pull flax. This intrigued our teachers and I carried back a handful to show them. The black seeds were used to make cooking oil, the stalk became the flax and the roots were boiled up for the pigs we were told. We were working with a couple of Italian prisoners of war who seemed very content with their lot and got on well with everyone. Then a mechanical flax puller was introduced for that and we were relegated to pulling the patches infested with thistles and our industrial gloves became a necessity. Wormleighton's village shop was the front room of a cottage where we would go and ask for cigarettes. Whatever brand we asked for, we were always offered "Robins", a brand I have never heard of before or since. I think I bought the only packet ever in my life for myself and gave up smoking before I had finished it, which was a wiser decision than I realised at the time. I also now realise how lucky we were to have gone to Claverdon to participate in old style harvesting.

The Christmas Post.

In the winter, as part of our "War Effort", the fifth and sixth forms were recruited to help with what The Post Office chooses to describe as "Christmas Pressure", again because of the shortage of manpower. The first step was swearing to obey "The Official Secret's Act", which was a promise of confidentiality; not to disclose to any " unauthorised person" anything that we might learn whilst we were doing the job. It was all very solemn despite being done "en bloc" in our classroom.
The largest church in most towns is what was then universally known as The Congregational Church and it was this church and hall in Chapel Street, the street where I was born, which The Post Office hired and where we gathered early on a frosty December morning to await the allocation of jobs. Don Silver and I were led to an old flat backed lorry hired for the occasion, driven by its owner who was a farmer. Our task was the formidable one of delivering all the non-registered parcels to the whole of Stockingford, the geography of which was then only generally known to us with no A to Z available. By the time that Christmas Day dawned however we knew it intimately! Most of the time we were on the back of the lorry and it was COLD. Our uniform was a Post Office arm band indicating that we were Temporary Staff and this meant that we were regarded as second class by the general public. Neither were there bars of chocolate at the corner shop, so our aim in life was to deliver all the parcels and get back to the warmth of the Congregational Hall as quickly as possible. Some of the parcels however were poorly packed and the blame for this was invariably laid at our door but my classic remembrance was of a parcel taken by Don, who apologised for its very poor condition, to a lady who came to the door, only to be told that we were delivering it to the sender and not the recipient and she had personally packed it with great care only two days ago and how on earth had we reduced it to that state in that short time? Don hurriedly retreated to the lorry wishing that I had made that particular delivery! In fact when we got back to base, if there were still letters to be delivered, we were sent out again on town centre deliveries. The tradition was for a Christmas morning delivery and to that end we all reported for our final day of duty but the exhortations to "Post Early" had been heard and the few letters sorted ready for delivery were seized on by the regular postmen anxious to get their merited Christmas Box and we were quickly on our bikes heading home.

The A.T.C.

Military cadet forces were encouraged during the war and we at The Grammar School had its own Squadron of the Air Training Corps-Number 121. We had R.A.F. uniforms and regularly cycled up to Bramcote Aerodrome on Sundays where we had lectures and drills and were sometimes taken up for flights. It was a training squadron and the aircraft in use were Avro Ansons and Wellington bombers. We had to wear parachutes and were instructed in their use but I do recall looking down and thinking to myself that it was a very long way down. My most memorable trip was in a Wellington when our Adjutant, Flt Lt Josephs, an ex RAF man took the place of the navigator but omitted to take any maps. We thought we were having rather a long trip when the sun started to sink below the horizon and then we learned that we were lost, with neither radio nor maps and to our delight we landed at an American Air Force Base to ask the way! We had visions of sampling their renowned hospitality-but on being told: that we were at Cambridge; that Bramcote was due West; and did we know anything about Navigation?; to our disgust the pilot took off, found a landmark and hared home, landing at dusk. . I got home to a worried mother and a ticking off.

Once a year we went to camp for a whole week. I only went once and can't remember where it was, but I clearly recall that they had Mosquito's. These were constructed of wood and revolutionary adhesives had been developed to stick them together in order to reduce weight and they were so fast that they couldn't be caught in the air. Whilst the pilots were keen to take us up, the Commanding Officer would not allow it but we did get instruction on firing 303 rifles however and learned how hard they can kick back.

Fire watching.

By 1942 German bombing raids were few but there was no let up on the Home Front as it was called and fifth and sixth formers and a few old boys volunteered for firewatching duty back at our partially repaired school which meant sleeping bags on the floor and if the siren wailed its eerie wail then we would put on our helmets and patrol, ready to climb on the roof and throw a sack of sand over any incendiary bomb or throw ourselves out of the way if we heard the whistle of a high explosive bomb, but it was usually quiet. The 1552 school was in a corner of the graveyard of the Parish Church and our present school adjoined it. David Butterfield who had read too many ghost stories persuaded me to go with him one Sunday night into the graveyard at midnight to see if any spirits materialised and this we did. It was a bright moonlight night and as we looked at the nearby church it was if all the lights were on inside. We were sure that it was the reflection of the moonlight but went to investigate.. All churches were then kept open as havens to go to but when we arrived at the west door and pushed it open we found the whole church ablaze with light - the old Curate, the Rev John Newton had omitted to switch off after Evensong! As a server I knew exactly where all the switches were and quickly put the place in darkness and used our torches to get out. The curate was greatly relieved when I told him and of course it never got reported to the authorities.

WORK!

The Daimler

The Daimler No.1 (aero engines) at Capmartin Road Coventry was a wartime government shadow factory, being a satellite of the main Daimler factory, but it was not in a remote location being right next door to the main factory with its own railway platform called 鈥淭he Daimler Halt鈥�. . Apart from the coalminers the majority of workers in Nuneaton commuted daily to work in Coventry:: by rail, 鈥榖us or bicycle, rarely by car because of the petrol rationing. I sometimes cycled all the way, about 8 miles, or cycled to Coton railway station, left my bike at the pub up the hill past the old workhouse for one old penny and caught the train to The Halt. Later I discovered a works bus that would pick me up at the bottom of Norman Avenue. The factory made parts for Lancaster bombers and worked three shifts, seven days a week; a lot of the workers being women, who operated lathes etc. doing work that before the war would have been unthinkable.

My job was in a windowless, blast proof laboratory in a corner of the factory. I started by analysing the vats in the electroplating department. There were some nasty chemicals, chromic acid for anodising aluminium and cyanide vats for cadmium plating. The operatives got danger money because of the risk of dermatitis, the men getting 拢100 a week and the girls 拢50, but I only got 30 shillings, which is 拢1.50 pence but it was a Staff job that was supposed to have some privileges? The one privilege that I did like which was not exclusive to the staff, was getting my hair cut by the works barber who operated on the premises so that workers who were there all hours could still get a hair cut - the fashion was short back and sides and most men had a trim at least every other week. By late 1944 the demand for aero engines was beginning to ease and in 1945 the word redundancy crept into the vocabulary and I managed to get released despite the wartime labour strictures and joined The Warwickshire Coal Company at Coventry Colliery.

.The War Ends:

Prior to the invasion of France on D-Day there was an enormous influx of American soldiers and in order to accommodate them every house with a spare room was obliged to put up a GI and this included us. Late one night an untidy group of soldiers marching out of step arrived in Norman Avenue and a large chap of about 40 years was ushered in. He introduced himself as Sergeant Mike Faulkner from Fresno California.. Naturally my mother made him a cup of tea (my father was working nights) and we watched in silent disbelief as he spooned five spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and neither of us said a word in protest despite a meagre ration of two ounces of sugar each per week - British diplomacy at its best? In fairness when Mike was told this by his CO he brought sugar and lots more from their PX which was the equivalent of our Naafi, but unlike ours seemed to have every luxury item that was in short supply in the UK including a new invention - nylon stockings and the GI鈥檚 quickly became popular with the girls to the dismay of the local lads. Mike got on very well with my mother and after the invasion he eventually came back on leave from Germany to stay with us. He took me to the cinema and was always considerate.
The only other incident about the GI鈥檚 that sticks in my mind was a dance at Courtaulds Canteen - a large dance hall where I often went on a Saturday evening. A GI from the Deep South took umbrage at a Nigerian RAF airman dancing with a white girl. His two white RAF friends tried to pour oil on troubled waters and persuaded the Nigerian to go and make his peace but in reality they had unwittingly poured petrol upon the fire as the GI then spat on the airman and there was nearly a riot. A lot of dancers had observed the incident and there was whistling and booing and it looked ugly. The two GI military police there ran to the exit like ferreted rabbits but the MC stirred the band into action and got dancers on the floor whilst the GI鈥檚 friends ushered him out and it was all over. Nowadays the subject is in the headlines but in Nuneaton at that time colour predjudice was non existent.

I remember D-day because of the dozens of planes flying over our factory, presumably on daylight bombing raids when every aircraft was pressed into service. There was no TV but almost every household listened to the nine o鈥檆lock news on the radio, including my father, who demanded silence whilst it was on. It was just like a religious ceremony.
When the end of the war was declared I went down to The Council House with my girl friend at the time, where there were thousands of people cheering and singing but she burst into uncontrollable sobbing as her brother Stanley Clifford had been killed in Burma by a Japanese sniper when trying to rescue his friend. It was a time for both joy and sorrow.

Gradually goods that had been unobtainable during the war appeared and I swapped my old all black Hercules bicycle for a pale green enamelled Raleigh Lenton Sports bike with chrome handlebars. It was actually the very first one in Nuneaton. Mr Collins the Raleigh cycle agent got the first, ahead of the big shops, for his loyalty during the hard times in wartime. Ron Parker my friend got the identical model, the second, from Halfords and we set out together to cycle around Devon & Cornwall - very adventurous for those days, young people did not venture abroad other than in uniform.

Looking back I remember those years as good ones despite the hostilities. There was a real spirit of sharing and helping one another and always a surprising optimism whatever the news. I read recently that when Hiltler was told of this optimistic spirit he concluded that the only possible reason was that Churchhill had made a pact with Stalin and decided to invade Russia!

Shylock

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