大象传媒

In the war years, the 19th of July 1941 was the date that left its mark on me. It was Saturday morning, a warm sunny day and I was playing with my best friend Tommy. We were both five-year olds and we had found a 'booller' in the back alley. The booller was an old tyre, probably discarded by the Army who were dotted around the steel works, manning the ack-ack guns, search lights and the barrage balloons.
My mother called me in and said we were going 'up the town' to get some new curtains. I didn't want to go, we were having such great fun with our new toy. She tried to coax me by saying we would be getting green curtains, my favourite colour. I said I didn't like green any more and wanted to play with Tommy. Reluctantly, she gave in, and agreed I could stay with Tommy. She gave us a penny each for ice cream and a stern warning: 'Don't go on the slag tip, they were blasting this morning!'
The slag tip is dumped spoil from the steel works. Over the years the waste slag had built up covering many acres, in places it ranged from eighty to over a hundred foot high. Grass and weeds had taken root and it seemed part of the natural landscape - except were the workmen were quarrying the slag. With the war, slag was in demand to fill in bomb craters, make new roads and build airstrips for the RAF. Two huge bites had removed many hundreds of tons, but there was still plenty left. This was the area my mother was referring to.
Money in hand, we boolled the tyre through the streets towards Kingy's ice cream parlour. With petrol rationing there was little to no traffic, and for many the only options were the electric trolly or walking. As we boolled through the Old Mans' Park we became aware of the change in the people on Jackson street. They had stopped walking and were talking excitedly while looking up at something behind us.
It was a runaway barrage balloon; the frayed cable had punctured the left ear, there was a big dent in its side and it was very low over the CO-OP building.
'It's coming down!' a man shouted.
'yeah, make bloody good black-out material.'
The older people started to walk faster, the younger ones started to run. There was a light-hearted excitement about it all.
'It's heading for the tip,' several commented.
The next thing I remember is being back at the corner of my street, looking up at the tip, still clutching my penny. Older kids than us were scrambling up the grass-covered slopes of the slag heap. While a few yards away was the sheer face of the freshly exposed slag. It looked like a mountain. There was a slight overhang, bits fell away at regular intervals. BLEEDING, it was called.
That is all I remember of July 19th 1941, but apparently we followed the older people up the side of the tip and tried to look over the edge. There was a few hundred people on the tip that day and why no one chased us away from the edge we'll never know. maybe they were too busy watching the balloon. However, we stepped onto the overhang and it collapsed under our weight and we fell eighty to a hundred feet to the tip yard.
Onlookers say there was very little visible damage to Tommy, but the doctors explained that our brains had bounced violently around the skull, causing massive internal bleeding. There was no way for the blood to escape, and Tommy died before they could get him to hospital.
A woman throw her coat over me, saying, 'Don't bother with this one, Doctor, his eye and brains are hanging out.' Lucky for me he did examine me. I had struck the ground forehead first, just above the right temple, causing a three-inch sliver of bone to shoot out allowing the blood to drain from my skull and saving my life.
I was unconscious for six to eight weeks. One day I suddenly sat up and said, 'Hello, Uncle Fred, where's your rifle?'
My fathers younger brother was visiting me on the day I came round. He had managed to wangle some compassionate leave - I was his namesake - before going to the dessert, and he was completely gob-smacked.
Orderlies, nurses and doctors came from all over, waving pencils, spoons and cups in my face, and asking me stupid questions:
'What's this?'
'can you move your legs?'
'What's your name?'
'What's two and two?'
'Wha...'
I thought they had all gone mad. I had no bandages. My cuts had all healed up and my hair had grown back. To me, it was the next day. It took several years to understand that they had been expecting a cabbage or someone severely handicapped to come through that kind of head injury. At five years old, I wasn't too sure what two and two was, but I still had the penny and all my marbles, thank God!
The tip is long gone, and after a number of years, and many operations I got a new forehead, plastic, of course. Now and then I wonder about Tommy: how many kids would he have had, What kind of work would he have chosen and would we still have been friends. Who can say, but during October-November I'll always wear the poppy for Tommy, one of the war dead!
Gibbie.

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