大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Roger Marsh of the 鈥楢ction Desk 鈥� Sheffield鈥� Team on behalf of Reg Reid, and has been added to the site with the author鈥檚 permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Bennett, the joiner, pointed out a ladder leading to a trap door on the top floor of Winthorpe Hall. "Let's go up on t'roof to get views o' countryside. I bet we can see Lincoln Cathedral." They climbed up, pushed the trapdoor open and got on to the flat roof, surrounded by a parapet on all four sides, perhaps about two feet wide. Reg gingerly stood on this parapet and exclaimed, "What a vista! What a vista!"

The flat lands of Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire spread all around and they could indeed discern Lincoln Cathedral, as well as Southwell Minster. George Bennett, with a fear of heights, became agitated and reverted to broad Sheffield dialect: "Get thissen dahn. Soft chuff! Tha'll kill thissen! Tha meks mi b****cks cringe watchin' thi - get thissen dahn!" English translation: Get yourself down, idiot! You鈥檒l kill yourself! You make my testicles cringe, watching you, get yourself down!鈥�

Reg got down and they both peered silently over the parapet as, way down below, Lieutenant Boot walked up the drive to the Hall, the sound of his footsteps crunching on gravel, floating up and over the parapet to their ears. Much noisier was the sound of an Ariel bike, Davenport sitting behind Wilf Smith, roaring past Lieutenant Boot. Davenport threw up a salute, which turned into a V sign as they roared out of the gate to the open road, his long legs dangling behind. Davenport had been a driver in Civvy Street - of carthorses!

He used to work at the Bridgehouses Railway Depot off Nursery Street, Sheffield - attaching an extra horse to incoming wagons to get the loads up the steep cobbled drive from Nursery Street to the depot. He was more used to dealing with horses than people - was tall and gangly like a colt. He had missed a kit parade that morning and Lt. Boot had asked him if he would accept any punishment he might give him. "Yes Sah!鈥�

A nice little stream ran through the grounds of Winthorpe Hall. A robin would hop onto a stone in the middle for a little drink. "Take this stirrup pump, Davenport." "Sah!鈥� "And pump this stream dry." "Sah!鈥� "Ha! Ha! Ha! Har!" Lt. Boot was hugely amused at his own sense of humour - but had let Davenport get back to Langford Hall after only fifteen minutes' punishment. Early one Sunday morning at Winthorpe Hall, George Bennett cast a joiner's eye on the heavy wine cellar door standing proud from the wall. He noted that, though securely locked and bolted, it was hung by two-part male/female hinges that could possibly be lifted apart. It would take a huge effort so, with a huge effort, he lifted the door off its hinges, squeezed through the gap, went down the cellar steps and turned on the light to reveal rows of bottles of wine and whisky.

Bennett had called to Winthorpe to see Reg for a possible run out to Lincoln together on Reg's Manxman - fuelled by Army petrol - but he was out on despatch duties. When he returned and parked his bike, his attention was drawn to something glinting against the sky. Looking up he saw a most amusing if alarming sight. More alarming than amusing. A b****ck-naked Bennett in black army boots, drunk as a skunk, was teetering along the parapet: an event that was to go down in the annals of Winthorpe Hall.

Sunlight glinting on what, might you think, alerting Reg's gaze? On a half empty whisky bottle Bennett was holding, of course! What else? Three hours' solid drinking had quelled Bennett's fear of heights and shed his clothes and inhibitions. Reg could only say to himself, "Effin' 'ell fire!" as he raced into the hall to find the duty sergeant. They'd have to go on the roof to try and coax Bennett down. "Effin' 'ell fire!"

The duty sergeant was pissed as a newt, sprawled at the top of the steps leading down to the wine cellar. Driver Wilf Wright came in the Hall just then, not very pleased because Sergeant Smith (no relation to Reg's friend, driver Stan Smith) had got it in for him. He'd sent him on a pettifogging delivery mission, a few training manuals to Hucknall on Sunday, his day off. He vowed to get his own back on Smithy one-day. It was the culmination of a lot of mean acts by the sergeant , as Wilf saw it anyway.

And now D. R. Reid was running by, swearing and ignoring him. White-faced Reg raced up the staircase in the Hall to get to the ladder up to the roof. There was a pair of staircases that wound up like those at Sheffield Town Hall or Chatsworth House, with a huge mirror covering the wall where they met. In the mirror, Reg momentarily thought he saw two ghosts, one was himself with stricken white face and the other was an all-white b****ck-naked Bennett descending the steps unsteadily. "Nish view of Lincoln Cathedral," were his only words before collapsing in a drunken stupor and rolling down the carpeted stairs.

Reg couldn't help cracking out laughing, comparing Bennett, typically working-class British, skinny white body and legs and bad teeth, with the German troops they'd seen on Nazi propaganda films, bronzed and fit with white even teeth. He kept on smiling as he cajoled and pushed the drunkard up to his billet. Bennett slept all afternoon before being sober enough to get dressed and walk with pounding headache back to Langford Hall. The example of his father William Angus had put Reg off alcohol. He wouldn't get into its grip. He wanted a clear head through life - didn't want to depend upon props like drinking, smoking and gambling. He'd save up for his own independence after the war. What about women? Well, man can't give up everything!

With these thoughts, Reg walked a little way with Bennett, collecting a couple of bottles of whisky from the wine cellar on his way back to test his will power against the demon drink. No sooner had he returned to his attic billet, which reeked of booze following Bennett's recuperation there, than he heard a shot fired. Wilf Wright had appraised the wine cellar situation, drank whisky from the bottles, got plastered, the drink not appeasing his desire for revenge upon Sergeant Smith, but rather feeding it. Hatred gnawed at his soul. He had a pistol hidden in his lorry. He staggered out to get it, then he staggered in to find Sergeant Smith; he found Sergeant Smith and shot at him, missed and got a year's detention.

Saluting during the `Phoney War'

A lad in the Infantry had told one of the drivers at Langford Hall, who told Reg at Winthorpe Hall that a Guards Officer had said, You should only salute an officer once a day on first meeting him in the morning.鈥� There were a lot more chiefs than Indians, officers than men at Winthorpe. Some liked to be saluted often, it made them feel important, though, of course, you must always 鈥榬emember, you're not saluting me; you're saluting the King! (or Queen)'.

All of you who have served His or Her Majesty know the drill with arm and hand - the longest way up, the shortest way down!
It was nearing Christmas 1939 and the world situation was quiet, but tense. People were expecting the invasion of France. There was talk of deals being considered. (Was it at this time that Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland?) All this led to a plethora of bull at both Halls to keep men alert, with military bearing. Halls, kit, lorries, even motorbikes were bulled to high degree.

Reg had to insist that lads brought bikes back in pristine order after they had used them. Well, it was only fair, he was doing them a favour even if they had to pay him half a crown hire charge, including a full tank of Army petrol.

An Open Day was held at Winthorpe, and leading up to it there was a frantic degree of bull. Everything that didn't move was painted white, you know the Sheffield United Tours arranged charabancs to arrive with family and friends on the designated Sunday in December 1939. People also arrived in rats or local buses, or even taxis from Newark Railway Station.
Reg's mother and father didn't make it. Theirs was a stormy relationship and they had come near to separating on several occasions. To be more exact Helen was on the verge of leaving William Angus Reid.
Marquee and trestle tables with food were set up in the grounds.

A tank, an artillery piece, and sundry lorries were in place for kiddies and young men to climb about in. A military band played Alford (British) and Sousa (American) marches plus `Old Comrades' (`Alte Kameraden'), a march common to both the British and German armies.
One could look round Winthorpe Hall if one didn't want to watch children's games and races. Even in the Hall though, one could hear a Sergeant Major bellowing out in military fashion: "Will the winner of the under 10's egg and spoon race dress forward?鈥� Reg was detailed to carry two buckets of steaming hot tea from the Hall kitchens across a field to the Marquee.

He looked ahead, eyes intent on his purpose, surveying the ground as he walked with shuffling steps with the two heavy buckets. "Reid, you didn't salute me!" It was a buckshee second lieutenant calling out in a rich accent. "How can I salute you, sir, carrying these (effin - sotto voce) buckets?" He continued shuffling along, not wanting to lose his momentum.
"STOP! STOP! Go back, man, and salute me by turning eyes right!" (angry rich accent). Reg did this but as he turned eyes right he stubbed his toe against a hummock of grass and went sprawling with his buckets. From ground level, through the steam of hot tea rising from the grass, he could see the lads laughing as they gave him a rousing cheer.

Pr-BR

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