大象传媒

BOMBS AWAY


It is a well known fact that not all bombs designed to explode on impact, do so.
There are, no doubt, various reasons for these malfunctions. Whatever the reason all unexploded bombs remain volatile - liable to go off at some time or other.
A matter which was drummed into children during the last war was the need to treat with great suspicion the discovery of any strange object, and report it immediately. I have to say that for most of us boys at or near the age of puberty it was water off a ducks back.
During the Blitz which followed the battle of Britain, the Isle-of-Wight tended to be used by the Luftwaffe as a dumping ground for undelivered bombs. The hot reception that awaited them over Portsmouth and Southampton prevented some aircraft from pressing home their attack.
Just prior to the outbreak of war my Father had, like others, taken the advice offered in a Ministry of Information pamphlet and stuck up all the windows of our house with crosses of brown sticky paper. The front room at that time was unfurnished through lack of funds; into it some spare blankets had been placed and more interestingly a tin of toffees; this was to be our place of refuge during bombing raids and gas attacks and in anticipation of the latter the windows were sealed with that same brown sticky paper.
Later, with the compliments of Herbert Morrison, the secretary for home security, we took possession of a steel, indoor table shelter. This was erected in our dining come sitting room and replaced the much scrubbed white deal table, which was thrown out. The base of this shelter was sprung with crossed metal lathes on which to place a mattress; the sides were steel mesh about four inches square, and the whole had the appearance of an animal鈥檚 cage. For reasons undiscovered the tin of toffees when transferred into it from the front room was discovered to be almost empty.
For most of the time this ugly intrusion was partly covered with a chenille burgundy coloured cloth edged with tassels. Dad, recognising the potential in this object, went out and bought a table-tennis set; this became a source of much fun, for it clearly was a different kind of game. Because of the bolt heads surrounding the edges of the table the ball would suddenly shoot off in unpredictable directions, which meant special rules had to be applied to cover this contingency. It was the source of much amusement for all the time it remained in the house.
In the early days of the Blitz we all piled into this claustrophobic contraption at night when the alert had been sounded by the siren perched on the roof of the waterworks. Soon it was only us children and then, as we became accustomed to the nightly raids, it went unused. It was much more exciting to crowd round the window of our parents bedroom, which faced due East, and view the night sky above Portsmouth. It was better than any firework display. For hours at a time it presented a backdrop of exploding stars and brightly falling flares - known as 鈥渇laming onions鈥� - criss-crossed with continually moving pencils of light. It was difficult to imagine how any aircraft survived those massive, continuous curtains of fire.
Once the siren had wailed out the nightly alert, the drone of engines from approaching enemy aircraft would soon follow. Most people were of the opinion that it was possible to distinguish an enemy aircraft from one of our own from the sound made by the engine; I was never quite sure of the truth of this, but they certainly did give off a steady pulsating noise.

As the distant drone of aircraft engines is heard, a searchlight battery suddenly stabs the night sky with a probing shaft of light; this is quickly followed by others as they join in searching for the target. The noise of machine gun fire briefly breaks the relative silence of the darkness, for a beam of light has picked out an aircraft, which is responding by shooting down that shaft of light in a vain attempt to put it out. No luck! For it has invited a long burst of tracer from twin Lewis Guns which curve upwards as dashes of light. Converging beams have now transfixed that white fly in a cone of light. Now it鈥檚 the turn of a nearby 4.7 inch anti-aircraft battery to come to life - whomp! whomp! 鈥� This develops into a series of loud explosions as other ack-ack gunners, scattered about in their sand-bagged enclosures, pick up the tune. Those once tenacious fingers of light now start to flit around the sky in disarray - the plane has slipped from their hold. All is quite once again, except for the distant droning of aircraft heading for the target area, where a much hotter reception awaits them. It is now well after midnight and the siren sounds the steady note of the all clear. But its not time for bed yet for in another hour or less the siren will slowly wind itself up and signal, once more, the wavering moan of the alert. The theme is repeated with slight variations. As the first flush of dawn mingles with the glow of burning fires over distant Portsmouth we retire to bed for a couple of hours sleep before facing the new day.
During the hours of daylight, Portsmouth, when viewed from Ryde esplanade, takes on a quite different air from the night before. All appears quiet and restful. Barrage balloons stand stiff in the smoke filled air. Out in the Solent, merchant shipping in their painted zig-zag camouflage are rendezvousing to form up for convoy; their distinctive fish tailed balloons float at the ends of their tethers like piranha in a fish tank.
The mayhem of the night has passed and taken with it a few more innocent lives. Now a false calm has settled over all, until darkness falls once again.

Only on one occasion did I hear the frightening screams of high explosive bombs which fell close to our house. It was said that if you could hear the noise of falling bombs then you didn't have too much to worry about. If that were true then one unfortunate family that lived in an isolated homestead at the end of 'Racecourse Road', just out of Newport, would not have had any warning when their house was demolished by a direct hit one night.
After every air-raid there was a residue of bombs which had failed to detonate. Where the ground was firm, the high explosive type could easily be located at the bottom of deep cylindrical holes: the very much smaller incendiary bombs lay scattered around the fields for all to see.
On a school bus journey from Newport to Ryde one morning after a night of intense aerial activity, I was able to see, from the top deck of the bus, the entry point of a large unexploded bomb in the gravel driveway of a house at the top of Lushington hill in Wooton. There was no intention by the authorities to close the road; two wooden trestles had, however, been thoughtfully positioned either side of the hole to prevent anyone falling in. Today, this would have resulted in the whole of Wooton village being evacuated. It was not surprising that we children became a little blas茅 in these matters.
On those nights when showered with incendiary bombs, the boys of the village would be out early the following morning collecting the scorched olive green tail fins; and, contrary to all warnings, secretively carrying away, the unexploded ones. In a nearby field to my home we were presented with an interesting sight one morning; a cow whose tail had been docked by an incendiary bomb, and presumably cauterised at the same time, was contentedly cropping grass unaware of all the attention it was getting.
Incendiary bombs presented a very real danger. Much damage could result from just one that smashed its way through the roofing tiles of a house. For this reason households were encouraged to band together as fire fighting units. We liaised with an elderly couple next door when we had taken possession of the Government issued stirrup pump. A team of three persons were required to carry out the instructions in the drill manual: one to pump the handle, one to replenish the bucket of water and the other to lay prone on the ground - this was a safety measure as some of the incendiaries were of an explosive type - holding the nozzle over the head, directing the stream of water at the source of the fire. At the command of 'water on', the pumper, with foot placed in the stirrup to anchor the pump firmly to the floor, would commence pumping vigorously for a while then change places with the person whose job it was to keep the bucket filled with water from the nearest tap, this continued until the person holding the nozzle shouted out, 'water off'. Fortunately we never had occasion to use it on 鈥渁ctive service鈥�.
But not all dangers came from above.
From Carisbrooke, there is an old Roman track that leads up onto Bowcombe Down. This area was much used by the military for firing practise. It was whilst exploring this site one Saturday that my friend, Raymond Waldock and I came across a small unexploded trench mortar bomb. The shiny brown casing and dull metal tail fins proved irresistible; what better way to while away our time than by practising overarm lobs with the thing. This required open ground. Carisbrooke Castle, nearby, with its steep grassy moats was the obvious choice. For the remainder of that lovely summer afternoon we bombed each other across the open spaces of the moats, the bomb describing long graceful arcs before thudding into the soft turf beside us as we dodged about.
Technically speaking, my friend had made the discovery, so he took it home to add to his collection.
What followed is best described by a short account that appeared in the IOW County Press on the 7th. June 1941:

'A thirteen year old Newport boy was bound over
for a year for failing to hand two incendiary bombs
and a trench mortar bomb he had found, over to the police.
'They were called to the house after a loud explosion
was heard, and found the boy sitting at a table with a
spanner and file, having taken the incendiary bomb to
pieces.
'When he was unable to unscrew the cap of the mortar
bomb he had thrown it out of the window causing it to
explode and blow out all the windows. He was shocked
but uninjured.'

When I called on him a few days later I could see that the outside loo was virtually demolished. His mother who was out at work when all this happened had no knowledge of his lethal collection which was kept hidden under his bed out of harms way.
It was common knowledge that if a .303 bullet was secured in a vice it was easy to detach the bullet from the cartridge with a pair of pliers. By holding a nail against the base cap and giving it a good clout with a hammer a fair sized bang would result. When a match was applied to the threads of cordite extracted from the brass case, they fizzed like saltpetre. One lad took the experiment a stage further and clouted the base cap without first detaching the bullet; the result was similar to that of Groucho Marx's joke cigar, but slightly more frightening.

It was in August of that year that Ray and I started work on the farm. It kept us out of trouble for the remainder of that summer, although a neatly stacked pile of incendiary bombs by the farmhouse wall was a source of continuing fascination.

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