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PART 1 of "TOM'S WAR" (Before Evacuation) can be found at A6470291.

PART 2 of "TOM'S WAR" (Evacuation) can be found at A6678048.

"The Germans had installed their long-range coastal batteries around the Calais area - within easy reach of Thanet - and they used to make irregular bombardments of East Kent. Little warning was given of shell attacks so we had to take them as they happened, spending many of our nights in our Anderson shelter in our back garden.

My moment of fear arrived at three o'clock one morning. Dad had gone to work on nightshift and we had been sleeping in the 'dugout' following a previous alert. I found that I could not sleep and, disobeying standing orders, I went back indoors to listen to Lord Hawhaw on the radio. The outrageous claims made by the German propoganda were amusing even to this unsophisticated teenager and I stood in the dark beside the 'wireless' enjoying myself. Unheralded, there came the loudest crash I have ever heard. I looked up from the floor where the blast had flung me and saw the room fogged with white dust, curtains and windows blown-in by the back blast; a large hole punched through the brick dividing wall where a chunk of hot shell had passed, struck the woodwork above me and landed at my feet.

By the time I had crawled out to the shelter Mum was frantic. The shell had exploded on a house less than a hundred yards away in direct line with ours - we caught the uninterrupted force of the explosion which caused damage to our home. The shell fragment was kept by the family as a momento of a close shave: many years passed before I was to see this splinter again - in New York where it had been taken by my American cousins who visited Mum after the war.

Dad was a member of the Home Guard and was deeply involved with a machine-gun section of the Buffs. 'Dad's Army' brought their weapons home with them, and consequently, I became familiar with a succession of guns like Canadian Ross, Thompson and Sten, and learned respect for the hazards of firearms. We as a family were as proud of Dad as a hero just as much as if had fought in the Western Desert.

As the boys neared the school-leaving age (14 in those days) they were told that they were expected to join one of the pre-service organisations in anticipation of National Service. The object was to prepare partly-trained entrants for the armed forces.

My first choice, naturally, would have been the Navy League's Sea Cadets, but this went by the board on two counts. Firstly, my introductory visit to the Cadets revealed the low level of activities, the instructors were nothing more than older boys enforcing each PT movement with 'stonachies' sand-filled bags applied vigorously as starters on any pretext. Secondly, I found that the trek to the Sea Cadet premises in Margate involved a five-mile bus trip followed by a two-mile walk, and the same for the return journey.

Army cadets were based in our town, but were not greatly favoured as we found that their training consisted of drill, drill, drill, and occassionally dismantling a rifle. Although the bait of the eventual 'War Office A' certificate was dangled before us we did not deem it a worthy reward; anyway, we had no desire to go into the Army to become 'brown jobs'.

Membership of the Scouts or the Boys, Brigade were considered acceptable evidence of patriotic participation, but I chose the ATC as the least inconvenient of the alternatives offered. Our Air Training Corps Squadron welcomed Alan Moore and me with some other of our chums without much trouble and, since it was based in a non-conformist church no more than a mile distant, I settled-in quite well.

We did an acceptable amount of square-bashing and were supervised by a benign Warrant Officer who instilled into his boys the importance of self, inner-discipline which needs no external force to apply it.

Our instruction included calculations by a clergyman, which I was determined to hate until I realised that this had a practical bias and was aiming towards navigation - of aircraft. Aero engineering knowledge was absorbed eagerly alongside the theory of flight. This activity was, we learned, directed toward producing aircrew for Bomber Command - in real terms - producing replacements for the horrifying losses of crews over Germany. It was a mercy that the war in Europe folded up before we could be drawn onto the mincing-machine.

We used to go to the RAF station at Manston for practical training such as firing on the ranges and for aircraft acquaintance sessions. My first flight was in a De Havilland Dominie, a military version of the Dragon Rapide, complete with parachute instruction. The flight was a circuit out over Pegwell Bay, along the coast and return to Manston, but it left us with our heads in the clouds, certain that this was surely for us; how I loved that aeroplane!

Manston was used as an emergency landing ground for aircraft beaten-up in combat over the continent, this included American aircraft crash-landing there, badly damaged, and were hauled to remote parts of the airfield to await disposal. One of our sacred tasks was the collection of memorabilia in many forms, plane parts, cannon-shells, tracer bulletrs, anything portable for swapping with pals.

A couple of us found a Liberator bomber recently landed and left unattended, so we seized the opportunity of some really big-time souvenir hunting to be the envy of our mates. I decided to be the first on board by climbing up beneath the nose to gain access to the cockpit; imagine my delight to see a real aircrew steel helmet resting inverted on the steps. I clamped this 'gift' onto my head - not expecting its contents - of brains and blood, to run down my shoulders. I retched. Souvenir hunting ceased.

Time came to leave school, without the School Certificate, the only qualification in those pre O-level days, so I went to work as a general factotum in a boot repair shop on contract mending Army boots, having resisted Dad's pressure to take-up an apprenticeship he had negoatiated for me as a brick layer. This lasted for a while until I went to work at a dairy, bottling milk and drinking the profits. My taste for milk dimished so that I have never since enjoyed milk - cold or hot - without a strong additive to disguise the flavour. Later years were to cultivate a similar aversion to pumpkin, sweet potato and bananas, but as that was a result of my seagoing days, it does not properly belong to this account.

Time drew on towards D-Day which everyone had been anticipating for a year. The roads of East Kent were choked with parked tanks, guns, lorries, and every suitable acre of land was packed with tents and field kitchens accommodating the busy troops. The 1914 port of Richborough was reopened and stocked with war stores; so secret were these preparations that the public were banned for a time from travelling along the coast road between Ramsgate and Sandwich. When the restrictions were relaxed, all buses had their windows blacked-out and a guard rode on each bus as an escort. The Normandy landings came almost as a relief to the area as the high pressure of the military population eased, freeing transport.

Ramsgate Harbour had been in service as a Royal Navy base and was even allocated a ship name, in traditional Naval style - the stone frigate, HMS FERVENT. The facilities provided a repair port for coastal craft damaged in action, and MTBs, MLs and MGBs; the roar of their engines starting up in preparation for night action was a chilling sound.

Several of the matelots became friends of the family and used to value the comfort of home cooking, with an armchair beside the fire: our naval friends returned our welcome with food and duty-frees from the base. One artificer moved his family from Wales to come and lodge with us; the Dineens have been firm friends ever since, returning to holiday with Mum and Dad post war.

A development in the air war brought the V1 flying bombs to Thanet as they overflew us on their way to their London targets. Their engines brought them the name of 'Buzz Bombs' and 'Doodlebugs'; we used to listen attentively to them (the two-minutes warning was given by a special attachment to the normal sirens and emitted a series of 'pips' so that people could dive for cover). Then came the sickening silence as the engines cut-out and the weapons plunged down - not onto targets, but indiscriminately, anywhere. At first we had no defence against the 'Buzz Bombs', until the Typhoon fighters were able to almost match their speed and thus persue them to fire at them with cannons, a risky task for the pilots. One of the contacts I watched was over the coast; the airman paid with his life as the V1 exploded in front of him, resulting in an enormous orange ball of fire.

We followed the progress eagerly as our armies fought their way through France toward Belgium and Holland, and our war dangers receded. On Sunday morning as I was going to work at the dairy, having been home for breakfast after a night's fire-watching duties, I saw that the airspace above Ramsgate was crowded with aircraft of many types. The sight was a delight for the keen aircraft observer - the surpise came as a bonus because the fleets included gliders being towed across the Channel. We knew well what the gliders contained - airborne troops, something big was happening; we heard later in the day as the wireless brought news of the huge airdrops on the Arnhem area. I saw it and was moved.

My activities with the ATC became extended toward our harbour, and part of our experience included a trial sortie on board one of the RAF High Speed Air-Sea Rescue launches. Here we were able to take an active part in the duties on board the HSL, cramped between the thundering engines, firing the Oerlikons, acting as crew members, in fact, ecstatic in my sea-going fantasies. Better still was to come; our uniformed status as cadets enabled us to obtain 'fishing' permits for the harbour area, and this brought us full access to all the craft there. We chatted and worked with the crews of MFVs, yarned with prize crews of captured E-boats, and smuggled 'ticklers' tobacco. We caught very few fish but enjoyed our new vision of life.

During this time the chance encounter that was to change my life and to fulfill that destiny revealed to me when I contracted that incurable disease of sea-fever on the cross-Channel day trip many years previously.

Based in Ramsgate was the coastal tanker 'Tillerman', engaged on the task of supplying fresh water to vessels using the Downs. I made the acquaintance of members of her crew. Eventually came the invitation to take a day out to the ships was seized with glee. I was accepted as an 'ex-officio' deck hand and thereafter spent as much time as possible learning the arts of seamanship; Captain Mitchell even allowed me to take my trick at the wheel.

Our victory in Europe was celebrated with fireworks by all the ships in the harbour, firing rockets, machine guns and wasting compressed-air through the sirens; much rum flowed to mark the occassion.

My spirits dipped when I was told that the cessation of hostilities brought the 'Tillerman's' task to an end, she was to be sent for an overdue overhaul in a dry-dock on Tyneside. Fortune was to smile on me when the skipper announced that there was a vacancy for a Deck Boy for the voyage and that I had been chosen to fill the post. My Dad was invited on board to discuss my venture and, satisfied with the prospects for my welfare, he agreed to allow me to join the Merchant Navy.

So ended Tom's War.

Afternote: Reflecting on the impact of the war on my family, I have to record with thankfulness that no one was killed or maimed during the conflict. Many of of our menfolk were involved. Sergeant-Major John Stupples of the Buffs fought in the Middle East and was taken prisoner on Kos. Chief Petty Officer William Stupples was coxswain of destroyers on Artic convoy escorts. Len Solly served as a Lance-Corporal in the Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry in the landings in Anzio. Bert Finch becxame a Battery-Sergeant in an anti-aircraft regiment and saw service in India. Fred Solly was a trooper in the Horse Guards, chum of Tommy Cooper the comedian. All returned safely from the war.

Story: This story has been submitted to the People's War site by Muriel Palmer (volunteer) Age Concern Shropshire Telford & Wrekin on behalf of Thomas SOLLY (author) and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

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