大象传媒

WAR-TIME EXISTENCE

We all owe our existence to the vagaries of life on this planet and my own is no exception. If it had not been for the First World War comrades who dug my father out of a premature grave when he was buried alive for two days, I would of course not be here today typing my WW2 reminiscences. The lure of a German officer鈥檚 pistol lying in a shell crater was too tempting for my father who became engulfed by the explosion of another shell when he tried to recover it. By sheer good fortune one of his comrades had seen what happened during the hellish front line advance and remembered the exact location! Most likely they expected to recover a corpse, but he was alive! He was wounded many times during the conflict and yet returned across The English Channel four times after hospitalisation to rejoin the front line as a gun carriage horse rider. He carried shrapnel in his body until his natural death in 1977.I still have his Soldiers鈥� Small Book which appears to have his blood on it. He was also a fighter in the boxing ring and fought against the famous Bombardier Wells in an Army championship final. His sister Louise was a front line nurse who was killed by poison gas.

THE PHONEY WAR AND NORTH WALES

My father鈥檚 war-time experiences had taught him a lot and when the 鈥減honey war鈥� started in 1939 his immediate reaction was to safeguard my mother. sister and myself by sending us to Betws-y-Coed in North Wales. As a printer for Odhams Press his income allowed him to hire a London taxi cab to take us the 200 miles from Ilford in Essex to Betwys-y-Coed. The fare cost 拢12!

At the age of four and a half years the journey was a traumatic one for me. When the taxi arrived at our Dawlish Drive address our next door neighbour begged to come with us with her two children, Terry and Paddy Griffiths. I can remember the cramped and seemingly endless journey to Betwys-y-Coed where we arrived in pitch darkness during a violent rainstorm. The driver had taken a wrong turning up a steep track and had to reverse where there was a sheer drop over the edge.

For our first night we stayed at The Royal Oak Hotel where we dined in style on a freshly caught salmon. The fish had apparently been caught by 鈥渢ickling鈥� so perhaps it had been poached. The following day we found an available room in a small cottage near to a water mill. I have little recollection of this property except that the loo was at the bottom of the garden and apparently was later nearly hit by a German bomber disposing of it鈥檚 bombs following an unsuccessful raid on Liverpool.

What I vividly remember of this time was the trauma of being sent to school for the first time. I am not sure if the teachers were speaking in Welsh or perhaps it was their accent, but I simply could not understand what was being said. Half way through the morning I decided that I had had enough and put my hand up to be excused for the toilet and promptly ran away from the school. Two older boys were sent to catch me but I escaped by crawling between their legs as they stood over me, and ran some distance back to our lodgings. I did not attend school again during the twelve months there.

For some reason we had to find alternative lodgings which were in a Grocer鈥檚 shop that also had petrol pumps on the forecourt. I believe the proprietor had wisely stocked up in view of the impending war which resulted in goods of all kinds being stored in every available space. Our room was on the first floor and the stairs and landing were stacked with very tempting items. This was when I blotted my copybook because I stole a tin of chocolate fingers and crept under the bed where I scoffed the lot! I imagine the evidence must have been on my face because my mother was absolutely horrified when she realised what I had done. Because she feared that we would be thrown out of our lodgings she made a special train journey to Llanrwst in order to replace the chocolate fingers with an identical tin without the proprietor knowing.I did however partly redeem myself by finding the proprietor鈥檚 petrol pump keys which he had dropped in the mud. Mingled in the mud were rotting oak tree leaves and whenever I now smell their pungency, I always remember that time. I recently revisited Betwys-y-Coed where the grocers shop is now a sportswear shop and our upstairs room is part of a caf茅. The rotting oak leaves still smell the same.

DAD鈥橲 ARMY

At the end of a year we travelled to Kettering in Northants where we stayed for a further twelve months before returning home. During our evacuation my father had constructed a substantial reinforced concrete air raid shelter at home, probably based on his WW1 experience. It consisted of a deep chamber with an entrance either side. In the chamber were bunk beds and a secret look-out which presumably was to observe marauding Jerrys! On the walls were pasted pages of comics such as The Knockout and Dandy.

My father was a member of the Odhams Press Auxillary Fire Brigade and because of this he decided to train our close neighbours in the art of fire-fighting. To describe this as hilarious would be an understatement because our garden was transformed into a sort of Dad鈥檚 Army training area! I can well remember the funny sight of neighbours crawling on their stomachs down the garden with one trying to pump water out of a bucket and the other squirting a somewhat pitiful spurt against an imaginary fire. It all ended with a water fight but good fun was had by all which probably helped to relieve the tensions felt at that time.

My uncle, Tom Barton, lived nearby at 94 Upney Lane Barking and officially ran a local Auxilliary Fire Service. The famous singer Vera Lynn also lived nearby in Upney Lane and he once told me that she had been a member of his war-time fire fighting team. It would be nice if this could be verified with Dame Vera.

One of the good things that arose from the war years was the camaraderie between neighbours, which I find is sadly lacking in our present day society. Our air-raid shelter was available to any neighbours and there was always an exchange of home grown food. My father ran an allotment and also turned our garden over to producing vegetables. He also raised chickens,ducks and rabbits to supplement our meat rations.

During this period night air-raids became more intense and I can remember being carried out into the cold night air to the wailing of sirens and the terrifying noise of anti-aircraft guns pummelling away in Barking Park a mile away, with whistling bombs falling and searchlights flashing across the sky in their sometimes vain hope of exposing our tormentors.

Daytime air-raids had ceased and on my daily walk to school I was able to enjoy a new hobby of collecting shrapnel which was lying everywhere after a night raid. Swapping bits with school friends was popular but my mother was not too pleased about the holes in my pockets made by the sharp pieces of metal!

THE HOME MADE BOMB

At the age of seven I was very interested in aeroplanes and anything put together with nuts and bolts. Probably because of the influence caused by war I came close to fatally injuring myself with a home made explosive device. Our garage had become a meeting place for my local friends where we whittled away at pieces of wood to make scale models of Spitfires and Hurricanes. On one occasion an older boy showed me how to make an explosive device with two bolts and a nut. By inserting a match head it made quite a nice bang when it landed on it鈥檚 end but I decided it could be improved. Searching my father鈥檚 scrap box I found some very large bolts with a matching nut into which I placed the entire contents of a box of Swan Vesta match heads. When I launched the device outside in the road nothing happened until eventually I threw it directly down at the pavement. It exploded immediately and one of the bolts hit my face just below my right eye causing a gash which required seven stitches. The loud explosion brought my parents and all the neighbours running out and I was quickly taken to the doctor鈥檚 surgery. I can still see my poor father being given a glass of water after nearly fainting at the sight of me being stitched up, even after all the horrors he must have witnessed during WW1.

DOODLEBUGS

At a later stage of the war it seemed that the nation鈥檚 superhuman war effort in all fields had gained impetus which resulted in better defences and less frequent air-raids. There was perhaps an air of optimism that we were beginning to gain the upper hand, but then hopes were dashed with the enemy鈥檚 deployment of the 鈥渄oodlebug鈥� or 鈥渇lying bomb鈥�. These were launched indiscriminately towards London and eastern England so again my father sent us away to safety. This time we travelled by train to Banbury in Oxfordshire but as the train was leaving Paddington Station a doodlebug passed directly overhead and exploded a short distance away, which I can remember seeing. In Banbury we went to the Council offices where we were given an address where we could stay.

NORTH ASTON HALL

Although it was not realised at the time, this was to be a momentous occasion for our family because we were afforded the privilege of staying at the country home of the Hichen鈥檚 family at North Aston Hall, Oxfordshire. After a short journey from Banbury the bus dropped my Mother, my sister and myself on the main road where we had to struggle with our suitcases for about a mile to the village of North Aston. Somewhat bedraggled we approached from the driveway leading to the hall where my mother鈥檚 first reaction was that a mistake had been made and that we should turn round and go back. We were however warmly greeted by Mrs Hichens who assured us that no mistake had been made and that a room had been prepared for us. In the ensuing days we soon realised what a delightfully charming person Mrs Hichens was. Even now I cannot find adequate superlatives to describe her. She declined any payment for the use of the room, so in return my mother helped with the running of the house with cooking and laundry work. My father, who commuted from London at week-ends also helped with general repair work and any necessary carpentry.

Mrs Hichens had a family of six children but had sadly lost her eminent husband by a German bomb in 1940. Mr Lionel Hichens had been Chairman of Cammell Laird and had played an important role in the production of munitions during WW1. Despite this tragedy she served as a J.P. and was an inspiration to all and readily opened her home for those who needed refuge.

I was nine years old and revelled in suddenly being transported into a completely different wonderful world where I could run and play in the extensive grounds that surrounded the hall. Gone were the fears of bombing destruction that I had gradually become more aware of. Mrs Hichens鈥� children were Phoebe, Stella, Rachel, John, Mark and Andrew, who was about my age. Our invasion of their home, in addition to other evacuee families, was accepted without question. Andrew and I became good friends and we both sang as choir boys in the adjacent St.Mary鈥檚 Church.

My mother鈥檚 sister, who was a spinster living in Barking, Essex was also allowed to join us. 鈥淎untie鈥� as she was immediately christened became instantly popular because of her piano playing. In the hall were several pianos and all the Hichens family were interested in music. I believe Stella became a concert pianist and Andrew is now a trustee of the Bampton Classical Opera Group and sings with his wife Anne in the chorus.

Also temporarily staying at the hall was the Inglis family with two children called Titania and Small. We soon formed a small gang which included Iris Cox who was the daughter of a grounds man living in the hall鈥檚 gatehouse cottage. Mrs Cox was the hall鈥檚 housekeeper and she would invite us to her cottage for tea where the smell of paraffin lamps pervaded the air because there was no electricity. Electricity in the hall was provided by a petrol generator.
Our little gang of children had the run of the hall and grounds and looking back it was surprising that we survived without serious injury. In the severe winter of 1944 we would go hurtling down a steep track on tin trays past the gatehouse cottage where it joined the Somerton Road. We had little control and always finished across the road although luckily we were never run over. On another occasion we narrowly missed being trampled by a herd of stampeding bulls in a nearby field. Harvest time could also be hazardous by riding on the mudguard of a Ferguson tractor but I enjoyed 鈥渟tooking鈥� the sheaves of corn.

I attended the village school where my intrusion as someone 鈥渦p from the smoke鈥� was met with absolute resentment by the local children who gave me a very rough time. There was only one teacher and the ages of pupils ranged from five to eleven years old, sharing one classroom. I didn鈥檛 tolerate be bullied and after a while I became more accepted. I successfully passed my eleven plus exam from this school thanks to the excellent teacher.

During early June 1944 there was a large detachment of American servicemen temporarily camped in the grounds of North Aston Hall and a brief friendship sprang up between us. 鈥淕ot any gum chum ?鈥� was the familiar call and always rewarded generously. Although we children were not aware of the dreadful destiny awaiting our American friends, we were sad when they abruptly left for Normandy beaches on D-Day. I have remained sad for them after subsequently learning that they all lost their lives on that terrible day and I cannot type this memory without a tear in my eye.

Mrs Hichens鈥� son John was a Royal Artillery Captain who was also sadly killed in Normandy, shortly after D-Day, and I still have a letter from Mrs Hichens thanking my family for the support they gave her at that time.

Although the scenic village of North Aston is perhaps little known, it has associations with several famous people. For instance, Roger Moore鈥檚 mother Madge was born there and the actor Clement Franckenstein also spent several years there being looked after by the Taylor family at the Manor. Another famous person who was a personal friend of Mrs Hichens was Joyce Grenfell who visited North Aston Hall several times when we were there. In fact my mother would always do laundry work for her. Although there is no evidence, it is just possible that she observed the families living at the hall for inclusion in her future monologues. Possibly I was the model for one of her child characters ? I can remember one character known as 鈥淎untie鈥� being in one of her hilarious sketches, who was perhaps based on my mother鈥檚 sister.

When peace-time came in 1945 we almost reluctantly returned home to war-torn surroundings. A V2 rocket had demolished houses a short distance from our home which more than justified our fortuitous evacuation.

We remained in contact with the Hichens family for many post-war years and our time spent with them provided my parents with a constant source of happy memories. A quirk of fate brought about by war had allowed my family and myself to experience a wonderful year at North Aston Hall which enriched our lives for ever.

As a personal tribute to Mrs Hichens, who I consider to be one of the many unsung heroines of that time, I have written a children鈥檚 fantasy story set in North Aston Hall which portrays how those war years were observed through the eyes of the group of children brought together by evacuation. It consists of some 80,000 words but so far has unfortunately not attracted the interest of a publisher. I feel it would also make an excellent television production, similar in some ways to a production called 鈥淕oodnight Mr Tom鈥� which was so successful.

Peter A. Barton
11.11.2004

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