大象传媒

HE WAS JUST AN INNOCENT KID.
By Charles Cater

The year was 1940, and the British Empire was at war. Young men from all walks of life were conscripted into the services to fight for their freedom. There were also volunteers from all the free nations too that wanted to free the world of tyrrany.

One young lad comes to mind, never had he been given the opportunity to wander further than an arms length of his family. He was a very keen lad who felt the need to put things right in the world. Being out of a worthwhile occupation and in need of some hard cash he forced himself upon the local jobs centre Teller known then as the Labour Exchange Officer for a position of quality and importance.

After due diliberation he was informed of a postion that just may bring this conflict to an end quite rapidly. On learning this he accepted without any hesitation, after all it was the country that beckoned his services.
This position of importance was relayed to his parents, who, with a little scepticism thought that maybe it was a passing phase of a 15-year-old. It was obvious to the lad that they were not quite with him as you see it meant him traveling to an airfield which was being upgraded to take those new fangled bombers called Lancasters. The runways were never designed for such monster aircraft and it needed skilled workers in laying tarmac down in just the quantitiy required without waste, after all there was a war on.

He was instructed to meet a bus at 6 am on the Monday morning at a defined area within the town centre. Now 6 am was pretty early for a lad only used to arising at 8 am whatever the weather. This was different to school days and was not greeted with enthusiasm.

On the morning just told, his Papa shook him to life after an exciting night with practically no sleep and gave him his breakfast which consisted of a slice of thick bread with beef dripping spread liberally upon its surface (beef dripping was the fat from the previous days roast, or what was afforded). This concoction, mixed with salt, was a tasty snack at this time of rationing, nothing was wasted in these years of austerity.

Arriving on time for the transport to take him into another world, he had never ventured away before so this was an experience to be remembered. On boarding this transport he was confonted with three of his schoolmates to whom also wanted to bring this terrible conflict to a swift end. They greeted each other like long lost brothers and settled down to make the journey into the unknown.

There was Bill Bonner, a larger than life boy of fifteen who was the lad鈥檚 childhood pal, always willing to help in any way he could and was known at school as the gentle giant. Next was George Clayton, somewhat more robust in his attitude to life, not averse to telling you what to do if it did not please him but the lad always kept on his good side as a friend, which was regarded as a smart move by others. Then there was Rich Williamson, not too keen on work but was willing to give it a try, well for the time being anyway.
Tom Sykes was a genial lad, always pleasant to be with, he was orphaned at 2 years of age and his Gramps brought him up in a very strict regime. It did not seem to effect him at all being disciplined at the slightest whim; she was compared with Tom Sawyer鈥檚 auntie who was always calling 鈥淭homas鈥�.
Then there was 'Bleucher' Fogg, a crusty old salt from the first world war. He was at the battle of Jutland, hence, the nickname Bleucher after an Admiral I believe. He always dressed in navy blue, the trousers were of thick woosted material and a thick navy blue sweater, he typified a sailor of standing. His tales were of quality to us kids but
we soon got tired of his escapades. The old salt's duties were to make refreshments for the surveying team when required, still, it was work of a kind that brought a few shillings to the coffers at the end of the week.

So here we are, four stalwart kids and a sailor making their mark upon history and the war effort.

On arrival at the airfield that morning, the mist still hanging low over the meadows that skirted the field gave them an eerie feeling. They were greeted by a grumpy looking individual that you would only expect to see on your first day in the services, would make a good seargeant major, ramrod straight and rather brusk in his manner which was daunting to say the least to these raw recruits.

The task was to get allocated to their particular jobs by 'grumpy' in which could be seen that no favours were given. This lads first job was to help Bleucher put the kettle on the hob for a cup of sustenance in the form of tea, a beverage much loved by the English.

Now at this point it was reckoned that the job might just be right for the money, pay was little, appreciation small and it was well known thereabouts that to get the tea post was the cream in the coffee, so to speak.
Within an hour or so the lad was upgraded to be assistant to the surveyer, not that he knew anything about surveying but he could fetch and carry with the best of them. This individual was not too friendly either, flounting his academic authority, but things generally went well at first, all the equipment got to him in a reasonably complete condition although the binocular that sits on the top went missing.

He was furious until I told him it was in his car, he look at the lad, grunted, and stalked off without a bye or leave. Thinking that this must be part of everyday activities he dismissed the reprenmand as a misunderstanding.

Two weeks had elapsed, all the coming and goings ceased and the time was ready for the influx of workers mainly from Ireland. In they were shipped, by the lorry load, about 50 or more in all, speaking a language that the boy had not been heard before.

Getting settled in to the barracks was a monumental task, having heard arguments who should sleep on the lower bunk. It was always the bigger chap that got his own way, well he would wouldn鈥檛 he, after all who wants to argue with a six foot, eighteen stone navvy who only knows that an argument can only be settled with the fist.

The runway was reinforced in record time and the time had arrived to hear of his fate. Most had been told to finish and go home with 鈥榓 little extra for your trouble鈥�. That extra being five shillings (25 new pence) a goodly amount I might say.

The lad was told to come back on Monday to help the surveyer to finally tidy up. Arriving as usual on the Monday turned out to be locked in his memory for life. The airfield was now open for business and the big wigs from the Ministry of Defence were coming to receive the first aircraft to occupy the strip.

The survey and old Bleucher, was instructed to keep clear of all areas within half a mile of the barracks. This they did, the lad and his companions sat upon a mound that looked suspiciously like a bomb dump to await the first arrivals.
It was not too long before the drone of engines could be heard; these monsters advancing with stealth were soon overhead. The lad was overawed with the size of them and the noise was deafening, shaking the inside like an earthquake shaking buildings in a 7 on the Richter scale.

Four of them there were, the first Lancaster bombers ever to be seen in the area, massive loud four engined aircraft that turned out eventually to be a legend in the history of Britain.

They circled once and came in one by one so gracefully it was hard to believe that something so huge could leave the ground let alone fly. The end was near and the experience apreciated, it is now time to leave the friends he made during his short stay. He knew that what he did must surely end the war that much quicker so that he could get back to a normal life. He went on to other thngs on July 20th 1944, but that is another story.
He told his children, grandchildren and now his great granddaughter what happened then and what it did to change his life. He has his memories to fall back on.
Well that is the end of a true story.
Oh! By the way I forgot to tell you, that lad was me.

I then went into one job and then another, not knowing really what I wanted out of life other that get through this trauma. I finished up working on the railroad as an apprenticed fireman in Peterborough, Northamptonshire, but that came to an abrupt end when it was found I had sight deficiency in one eye.

They were very strict about that and colour blindness. I was eventually packed off back to my hometown of Boston in Lincolnshire and within a matter of a few weeks was asked by the Ministry of Labour if I wanted to be recruited down the coal pits. I made a point of asking why was there a shortage of coal when such a lot was to be seen on top.
I declined of course but I think that it was inevitable that I would be drafted into the forces.
This happened on December 2nd 1943, going into the 10th Battalion Lincolnshire Regiment Infantry.
My Primary training went well, and was sent to Bacton near Cromer for my Divisional Training, this went on for 3 months when finally the time had come for me to move on closer to the object of my training.
Having spent a week in Aldershot ( Salisbury Plains) I was allocated French coinage which led me to believe they were sending me on holiday.
Not so, I was whisked down to Newhaven docks and boarded a ship there. We were told to make our last letter home before sailing into the unknown.
Little did I realise that the convoys ahead were not disembarking as quickly as they should and we were left languishing for 24 hours in rough sea in the English Channel just off the coast of Normandy. Now to say I was ill cannot be over described, I could not keep anything down for many minutes and felt as if I was dying there and then, I was not alone by any means.

Eventaully arriving off Arromache I was delighted to see the concrete structures that had been lowered into place to make a small harbour. Those who had arrived earlier did not have so much luxury, I never got my feet wet.

Three days elapsed and I found myself coming into an encampment which received new intakes, there I met my brother-in-law who incidently happened to be the chief cook. The meeting was a funny affair. Those not familiar with the routine in this situation must realise that it was no holiday and the facilities which have to be visited was an embarrassment in itself, with no privacy at all, you sat side by side, chatting if you felt like it. The meeting happened when I saw this squady (soldier) playing hell about the indiscriminate use of the recent daily newspaper. I recognised his distinctive voice immediately and I shouted to him, he turned and saw me there in all my glory.
Back in civvy street we were great pals, he was my mentor. The greeting was typical of him, saying to me "What the hell are doing here".
Now it did not need a high school certificate to figure that one out but I had to explain that I was forced thare and I certainly did not volunteer.

As it sas a holding unit, a sort of rest camp, I was not to stay very long as we were moving on beyond Bayeux which had just fallen. Before departing he loaded me with tins ob soup and meat, the type which, when a cigarette or match was applied to the centre of the top of the tin it burned and heated the soup, I think it was called Maconachies soup.

It was a very welcomed addition to my diet until after a few miles treking along the narrow Normandy country lanes turned out to be too much for my slender physic. I eventually threw them to some children who was begging along side the road. They were grateful for the morsels.
I walked alongside many French Canadians who had joined us with others from the Empire and was proud to have been part of what eventually turned out to be victorious.

Cutting a long story short I eventually finished up back in Victoria Hospital, Netley, Southampton exactly one month after arriving in France convalescing over in Richmond Convalescent Home, only to find being in line of the buzz bomb menace. They were more of a nuisance than a threat as they were intended for further afield around Croydon mainly. However, as Richmond was high above sea level, by the time the buzz bombs passed overhead they were no more that a hundred feet above us and that was uncomfortably close for my liking.

I was eventually tranferred to the 59th Vehicle Reserve Depot in Thornton Hough in the Wirral Nr Birkenhead where I met my wife Marie. I married her two years later and we had first a daughter Marilyn and then four years later a son Christopher who, between them produced six grandsons and a great grand-daughter for Marie and I.

Marie and I have been together now for 57 years and hope that we can make it to our Diamond Day.
I hope that this story, short as it may be, will give you some idea of who I am about. Although there are many pages to be written both before my experince doing my bit at fifteen to the present day the editor would not look upon it likely that I wonder into those realms.

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