大象传媒

Essex Village 1939-1945

During this conflict evacuees poured into our north-west corner of Essex by the coach load as we were only forty miles from the capital so our meagre population of three hundred and fifteen was at least trebled. These evacuees brought new life to our village and many new friendships.

At first the older inhabitants detested these cockneys who disrupted their lives and laughed at their superstitions but I welcomed them. These dockside children from the East End were less docile and much cheekier than our village breed and school life was much enlivened by their presence.
They brought with them unwanted gifts, scabies and nits from Tidal Basin and Canning Town, both of which I fortunately escaped; my mother being convinced that our saviour was red Lifebuoy soap. It was a familiar sight to see the victims, the morning after arrival, parading the village swathed in white rags or bandages, beneath which were shaven heads. They did not return to school until pronounced clean.

Our school playground echoed with the chanting of skipping rhymes: "On the Mountain Stands a Maiden," "I'm a Girl Guide Dressed in Blue," "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear," "Jelly on the Plate," "Salt, Mustard" etc. There were dozens. How we skipped and showed off with our skills of 'bumps' and various complicated steps.

We also played numerous forms of tag and ball games such as "Sevenses," "Queenie" and "Wally" and the more leisurely "Five Stones" in which we were very accomplished.

When an air raid was in progress we played cards or board games such as Snakes and Ladders, Ludo or Draughts, under the desk which was a welcome relief from ordinary lessons.

At school we became one big family as we scampered through the sunny meadows blackberrying on those lazy September days, tumbling over when our gas masks steamed up but forbidden to remove them, as we chanted: "If you get a funny feeling and a smell of musty hay, You can bet your bottom dollar that it's phosgene on the way." We memorised other gas-warning rhymes as we stomped along which I can no longer recall.

My friend Ruth at The Red Lion had a large barn in which we organised concerts, charging 陆d entrance fee. Here we danced, acted our own plays and sang mainly war songs on an improvised stage made from boxes and wooden planks plus real curtains, the ultimate luxury in those days of "Make do and mend."

Here we sang "Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer," "When They Sound the Last All-clear," "Lily Marlene," "You Are My Sunshine," "There'll Be Blue Birds Over the White Cliffs of Dover" and many more since forgotten.

Although daytime was fun, nights at home in the blackout were very frightening mainly because we were surrounded by some very important aerodromes: Debden, Wethersfield and Stansted being in the immediate vicinity. The skies were full of Spitfires, Blenheims, Hurricanes and later Flying Fortresses, so we were sitting targets for the Luftwaffe. As soon as our blackout curtains were securely fastened the Ack-Ack gunfire would commence and the searchlights sweep into action.

We would sit hunched and trembling by our flickering coal fire watching our swinging paraffin lamp, as the ceiling trembled, ready to dive for cover under the heavy wooden table if we heard a bomb screaming down.

Sometimes we would run upstairs to watch the German bombers dodging the gunfire, the searchlight beams pinpointing their evil black crosses.
Most nights I slept in a passage under the stairs in a single bed, with my mother, to leave room for the evacuees who shared our house but I secretly prayed for night air raids so we could visit our neighbour's huge cellar with his black Labrador, Paddy.

The cellar was lined with coffin boards, as he was the local undertaker, but I felt warm and safe nestled under the rough grey blankets with Paddy the dog licking my face. I did not look upon the coffin lids as an evil omen as my mother did.

Many a dawn we emerged from the cellar after the raids to see our golden cornfields ablaze with incendiary bombs and the sky over London illuminated with a crimson glow, dramatic and fearful, our village church spire silhouetted against the skyline.

One afternoon, early in the war, hearing gunfire, I ran to my bedroom window, which looked straight across open fields to the aerodrome and saw two parachutists dangling above the nearby meadow.

With great excitement and curiosity, eager to view at close quarters my first real Germans, I grabbed our binoculars and fled down the allotment path and over the stile, my mother's voice ringing in my ears "Come back, Ursie; They'll shoot you".

Ignoring the warning I perched on the stile, with my binoculars; and had a close up view of the two "huns", as we called them, running along the hedge of the adjoining barley field and wildly in pursuit was Phil, a local farmer's son, wielding a pitchfork.

However, the local policeman, PC Carlton, arrived before injury occurred and bundled the two young Germans into his car and back to the Police Station, which I managed to reach before them, having run back across the meadow, it being much quicker than the roadway.

Both were trembling violently when they alighted, probably expecting imminent death, both very blond and handsome, about eighteen years old. I was disappointed to find they looked quite human; having been fed on wartime propaganda I expected quite different specimens.

Our village throughout the war was teeming with "furriners". After the Women's Land Army came the Hampshire Regiment encamped in the nearby village of Radwinter, followed by Italian PoWs who worked on the local farms and made us rings from toothpaste caps used for gems, and pieces of perspex or aeroplane metal which they used for the band. They were followed by German PoWs who were preferred by the farmers being more laborious.

Later at Wethersfield Air Base we had USAAF which greatly pleased the teenage girls, many of whom became GI brides. We loved the friendly Americans who provided us with much appreciated gum and life-savers, like coloured Polo mints, which supplemented our meagre 3oz. per week sweet ration.

At Debden Aerodrome there was an ever-changing population of RAF and later came the Displaced Persons who used the old camps. These all greatly added to the variety of life in our village during and immediately after the war.

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