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The Wardens

If there was one thing the enemy could not destroy during the war, it was the British sense of humour. Even during the war’s darker moments, the lighter side of life would often break through to lift the spirits as this story well illustrates.
During the war, every street had its wardens. These were local men who had volunteered for duty as fire or air-raid wardens. The duties were very similar, but fire wardens were usually stationed inside buildings whereas air-raid wardens patrolled the streets. All wardens were issued with a tin hat, a whistle, a red bucket, a stirrup pump, and an armband.
As there was a complete blackout in force, it was essential that no home had any light showing. Most places had blackout curtains that were carefully drawn each evening, but there would always be the occasional crack of light escaping from a door carelessly opened or a curtain disturbed. My strongest memory of the wardens is of their continuous shouts of ‘Put that bloody light out!’
One of the wardens’ functions though, was to watch for incendiary bombs and extinguish them before they could create too much damage. These bombs were quite small and dropped in clusters to create firestorms amongst buildings. These bombs contained phosphorus and magnesium, materials that burn very bright and hot and are liable to explode if sprayed with water. They could easily be controlled if smothered with sand, any eventual outbreak of fire being extinguished with a stirrup pump in a bucket of water. Anyway, that was the theory.
One evening there was an air raid warning, a distinctive rise and fall wailing note of a siren. Half an hour later the all clear was sounded, a continuous steady note. We had not taken cover, as there was neither apparent activity in the sky nor any distant thumping of exploding bombs. We carried on reading our books and listening to the ´óÏó´«Ã½.
Suddenly there was a big commotion in the street. Shouts of ‘Fire’ and the piercing sound of a whistle. Dad went into the darkened hall, opened the front door, then returned quickly and grabbed his coat.
‘What’s happening out there?’ mum said.
‘It’s that Evans fellow from across the road. He’s the warden tonight and he’s got an incendiary out there. I think he’s in a panic. I’d better go and give him a hand, or he’ll end up as toasted Welsh rarebit.’ Taffy Evans was a short but stocky Welshman who lived diagonally across from us.
‘Can I come too dad?’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen a real incendiary bomb.’ I was about fourteen at the time and felt quite grown up.
‘Okay, but it’s chilly out there so put a coat on. And keep your distance.’
Out we went to the other side of the road, where the incendiary was lying in the gutter, burning brightly like a white flare. Three more were burning in front gardens spaced along the street. Dad was right, it was Taffy Evans who was the duty warden.
Taffy wore a heavy overcoat over the top of a thick scarf wrapped at least twice around his neck, the coat reaching well below the top of his gumboots. He was only a short fellow, the coat being at least two sizes too large.
His face was hidden behind a balaclava helmet, his big frightened eyes reflecting the glow of the burning bomb. To top it all off, his steel helmet was pulled down over his ears, the helmet being far too big for him. Only his eyes were visible.
‘Got an incendiary there have we Taff?’ dad said, acting nonchalantly.
‘Joe! Thank God you’re here boyo. Quick, do something! It won’t go out!’
‘Where’s your bucket of sand Taffy?’
‘Sand? Ain’t got no sand. Me bucket’s full of water!’
‘You’re not supposed to use water Taff, it’ll blow up!’ Dad was grinning. He and Taffy were great friends.
Taffy Evans couldn’t stand still. He was prancing around as though his gumboots were on fire, poking his stirrup pump at the burning bomb.
‘What’ll we do then?’
‘Let it burn. Ain’t doing no harm in the gutter.’
‘But there’s a blackout! We’re supposed to extinguish it!’
‘Okay then, just tip a bucket of dirt over it.’
‘Good idea Joe.’ He then clambered over the nearest fence — bucket clattering — searching for some loose soil.
By the time Taffy managed to return with his bucket of soil, the bomb was but an empty shell, its red heat fading in the darkness.
‘Hurry up!’ dad shouted, ‘It’s almost out!’
Taffy staggered over to the almost expired incendiary and emptied a bucket of soil, weeds, and dead leaves over it. The glow disappeared, replaced by a few curls of steam.
‘Well done Taffy! You’ve put it out all by yourself, most likely saved the whole street!’ Taffy lifted his balaclava and gave a big grin.
‘Weren’t nothing Joe, just doing my job.’ he said modestly.
‘There’s still a couple of bushes burning further up the road’, dad said. ‘Do you need any help with those?’
‘No thanks Joe, I’ll just throw a bucket of water over them, that’ll fix it.’
The bomb cluster had been released after the all-clear had sounded, most likely from a straggler on its way home. Luckily the other bombs had landed in gardens, half burying themselves in the process. None of the homes suffered any damage. We were all very lucky; they were the only bombs ever to hit our street.
The myth of ‘Taffy’ Evans’ bravery grew over the weeks, each telling growing with exaggeration and added embellishment. Dad and I helped the story to expand, mainly as a joke in Taffy’s favour. After all, we were the only witnesses to the event, and our hero was not likely to dismiss his own performance.
Pretty soon Taffy became quite a legend. Everybody heard about the night when he single-handedly extinguished six incendiary bombs as well as giving the alarm to warn the residents. According to the story, he saved the street from total destruction. Dad and I were only too willing to help the story along, confirming that no other person was involved.
It was my mother’s idea to write to the newspaper. Although stories of bomb damage were not normally printed due to security reasons, stories about personal heroism were. It was not too long before a reporter appeared on the scene. Dad gave his own dressed up version of the event, making it sound almost like a Hollywood action movie with Taffy as the hero. I nodded in agreement at the appropriate moments, and added my own comment that he deserved a big medal! Poor Mr.Evans, he was being well and truly set up!
When the Luton News was published the following Thursday, there on the front page was a photograph of Taffy wearing a tin helmet emblazoned with the insignia WARDEN The reporter had managed to find one that fitted. He looked completely stunned in the picture, as though events had overtaken him. Rather unkindly I thought, Dad reckoned he looked like a castrated owl!
The picture was accompanied by a double column write-up. It described how he had coped with eight incendiary bombs single-handed, extinguished two small house fires to prevent the fires spreading, and then evacuated all the residents to a safe area. The article finished with my quote -‘Mr.Evans deserves a medal!’
Six months later, Taffy was once again in the newspaper. He had been awarded the Civilian Defence Medal for bravery and public service. Taffy’s main concern was that he was scared stiff of meeting the King to receive his award. He shouldn’t have been. The local Mayor made the presentation at the Town Hall, with a tea and cake reception after.
My father and I never breathed a word to a soul about our part in the plot. Well — not for at least two weeks after the presentation!

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