大象传媒

This is really a third-party contribution, since it relates to my late father, Ernest Miles, who, at the time of the event, was Sales Director for a large Portsmouth company of bread and confectionery bakers and naval contractors called Campions (Bakers) Limited.

The bakery was situated between Kent Street and St. George鈥檚 Square in Portsea, Portsmouth, an area which was adjacent to Portsmouth Dockyard and, of course, was producing their 鈥渄aily bread鈥� for many of Portsmouth鈥檚 citizens as well as for many of the naval and army personnel located in a variety of ships and military establishments.

The night of January 10th, 1941 was one which no citizen of Portsmouth then present will ever forget for it was the night of one of the heaviest air raids mounted by the Luftwaffe on Portsmouth and many of the city鈥檚 prominent buildings 鈥� including its Guildhall, to be rebuilt post-war 鈥� were destroyed either by high-explosive bombs or by incendiaries, which, though slow to work their effect, were just as deadly. When the fires which they had started, often deep within a building, became apparent, it was usually too late for the already hard-pressed Auxiliary and main Fire Services to subdue.

That dreadful night caused the city鈥檚 main electricity generating station to be severely damaged by bombs, resulting in loss of power throughout Portsmouth and it was many days before power was restored to all parts and, as they say, thereby hangs my story.

In those days, a large plant bakery 鈥� as they were called 鈥� like Campions arranged the bread making process in such a way that flour was stored in sacks at the top of the bakery building 鈥� at second storey level 鈥� from where it was 鈥減itched鈥� as required through openings in the floor down to large metal dough pans in the dough room below. These dough pans were interlocked with a rotary mechanism and had very large and heavy mixing arms, which, after the flour had filled them and the water, salt, yeast and fat had been added, thrashed the ingredients around until a satisfactory and even mixture had been obtained. Thereafter, the contents were left for the yeast to do its work and leaven the dough mixture. After an hour or two, the dough mixture would have risen more or less to the rim of the dough pan, at which time it was ready to be pitched through a shute down to the divider 鈥� a machine which automatically cut the dough into measured loaf-sized pieces 鈥� at ground floor level. (There, the dough pieces, were moulded or 鈥渉anded up鈥� before they were ready to be placed into greased baking tins before placing into the bakery鈥檚 鈥渢ravelling鈥� oven. The term 鈥渢ravelling鈥� indicates not that the oven moves but that its contents 鈥� dough in tins 鈥� do, on an endless belt and arrive back at the oven mouth after steam and the heat of the oven have been applied to complete the baking process.)

On the night of January 10th, 1941, two dough pans in the bakery had been filled with their ingredients and were awaiting the time-honoured process of fermentation to be completed when, as the electricity Power Station was hit by bombs, the lights went out and the power went off. In the tumult and confusion of that night it seems that the doughs were temporarily forgotten about but they, unaware of man鈥檚 silly intervention, did their work as nature had decreed and rose 鈥� and rose鈥� and rose until they overflowed the dough pans and went on rising! The lack of electricity meant that the mechanism for pitching their contents was inoperative but, even if had been possible to pitch it by hand, the awaiting divider and the travelling ovens were inoperative, too.

So, like the broom in the 鈥淪orcerer鈥檚 Apprentice鈥�, the doughs continued to work, overflowed onto the dough room floor and from there down the stairs to the bakery floor below, where the fermentation process having been exhausted, at last, they stayed. My father recounted this tale several times at various locations and meetings in the City and stated that the dough was eventually cut with shovels into manageable pieces and taken away by lorry for disposal 鈥� he was uncertain where but believed that some of it went for pig food.

I have my own story to tell of the night of January 10th, 1941 but that is elsewhere.

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