大象传媒

HITLER V. A BRIGHTON SCHOOLBOY

oldbrightonboy

1. Declaration of war

2. Home Front

3. Schoolboy鈥檚 war

4. Scouting

5. War鈥檚 end

Hitler v. a Brighton schoolboy (personal) Hitler4

Part 4

Scouting

Part 4A

Scouting was the third strand of my life during the war; home, school and scouting. I had been a cub, moved into the scouts and, now, prematurely because one matures quickly during a war, very involved in scouting. The Rover Scouts went into the armed services almost as war was declared as they were generally old enough for 鈥榗all-up鈥�. They were, after all, young men. Indeed, our scout master, Chummy Hewitt, wound up the Rovers for 鈥榯he duration鈥� and concentrated on the scouts who usually stayed until they, too, were of military age and 鈥榡oined the colours鈥�. That was the time during which John and Peter Hewitt and other hazy figures led us. Then, overnight it seemed, we became the leaders.

Before the war the Rover Hut had a sacred aura for we young scouts but when the Rovers left the magic went with them. Almost all my recollections of the hut are of a room stacked with newspaper which had been collected as part of our war effort. The paper smelt musty and unpleasant. Every building during the war seemed damp and chill. On the wall of the Rover Hut was a framed, coloured cartoon of a scout master attempting, unsuccessfully, to light a conical camp fire made of twigs. He was red-faced and surrounded by dead matches and young, laughing scouts. The caption read, 鈥楾he scout master who couldn't light a fire鈥�. Two was the recognised maximum number of matches to be used to light a fire.

Scout meetings were held in the church hall and included instruction in first aid and civic duty. Chummy closed the meeting at about 9pm. His valediction included 'grumbles', notices, reading extracts from letters from scouts on active service and prayers in which he asked for a blessing on the troop and on its members "wherever they may be especially those who are dear to us including our brother scouts everywhere鈥︹�︹�︹��..". Chummy had, himself, served in the Royal Navy in the First World War and he had great concern for the lads on active service especially as, later in the war, his own two sons joined the Navy. He was in the best possible sense a pillar of local society. He was a relatively senior civil servant, church-warden and scrupulously honest. Come the war his car was jacked up in the garage never to run until the war was won. During our darkest days, when invasion appeared imminent, he confided to some of us at a meeting of patrol leaders that in the event of invasion he did not expect to survive very long. "I am sure to do or say something which will have me put against a wall", he said.

Patrol leaders met at Chummy鈥檚 house on Thursdays. We usually numbered about six as we settled round the table in the living room and learned about maps, morse and first-aid. There would be reminiscences, home-spun philosophy and Mrs. Hewitt鈥檚 chocolate cake and lemonade. How she managed chocolate cake for six hungry scouts when rations were so tight I will never know but she did.
Occasionally one of the Hewitt sons would telephone from faraway on active service and after May had had her say with her son Chummy would take over. We could hear only one end of the conversation but Chummy鈥檚 'old boy, old boy' expressions of love embarrassed some of our immature minds.
We listened to Tommy Handley and the Nine O'Clock News with Chummy before cycling home through the blackout.
We learned much from our meetings with Chummy, he was a patient and devoted man. He was never intimate in any sense with any of his lads, he was almost distant, but he provided us with a set of principles, albeit rather conservative principles, which brought us together and enabled us to distinguish right from wrong. It may not have led us to do right but we knew when we weren鈥檛 and he probably saved us from doing worse.
He conducted a prolonged, unsuccessful, campaign with the headmaster of Varndean School which several of us attended to allow us to play football on some of the school pitches. It was a tribute to the quality of his leadership that although the Varndean boys were eligible to join the school troop, which had better facilities than our 鈥榗hurch鈥� troop, we stayed with Chummy and Ernie Coleman who was the sort of loyal lieutenant every organization needs. Officially Assistant Scout Master, it was he who made things happened. In his thirties, it was well into the war when he was called up and served in the armored corps until demobbed when he returned and carried on where he had left off, including the troop.
Flag raids were a favourite activity on summer evenings. The object was for one team to defend the 鈥榗amp鈥� and the other to creep up unobserved and capture the flag. During one flag raid a Canadian soldier provided us with practical sex instruction. We witnessed sexual intercourse in action. I was leading a party of three or four younger scouts to the southeast corner of Hollingbury Camp, near the spot where I was when Britain declared war on Germany. We were crawling through the bushes on our tums and there in the shallow moat was a Canadian soldier with a female of the species. Both were too 'otherwise engaged' to notice the heads of four scouts. As we circumnavigated them, looking over our shoulders, our education was advanced. So that's how it鈥檚 done!

The war did not stop us camping but as First World War bell-tents were our main accommodation we had painted them shades of green and brown. We did not wish to be machine gunned by passing Nazi aircraft mistaking us for military. Part of the arrangement we had with our host farmer was that we helped on the farm but I have often doubted if the farmer gained much from the deal. Advantages of camping on a farm were that if it rained or blew unduly hard we could sleep in the barn and fresh milk was usually available.

At weekends we gathered as friends who happened to be scouts. There were often 10 to 15 of us. We depended on bicycles for transport and packed sandwiches for our sustenance. Much open land around Brighton had been requisitioned by the War Office for training and defence purposes. Families were moved from their farms, whole communities dispossessed and the buildings and land used for instruction in house-to-house-fighting, artillery and mortar practice and tank warfare. Tide Mills, near Newhaven, was more or less flattened to provide clear lines of fire in the event of invasion.

Standean and Stanmer Park were our domain. We unofficially and illegally shared those farms with the military. One of our number commented that he came under more hostile fire during our trips as scouts than during his three years in an armoured regiment part of which service was spent in Palestine during the troubles of 1947-8. The army mortared and machine-gunned us and tanks crashed through undergrowth within a few yards of us. At all times the army had no knowledge of our presence. With his subsequent knowledge of a tank commander's visibility from his tank, Den mused that we would not have been seen either before or after we were crushed. We were, we estimated much later, probably 200 yards away from exploding mortar bombs but it seemed much closer at the time. We heard them landing in distinct groups. We decided to move away sharpish but did not want to be caught running. "They usually come in fours", I announced with more confidence than genuine knowledge. So we waited for the fourth and 'as a man' moved out as more bombs, ignorant of what we expected of them, crashed down, moving closer and closer to us.
On one occasion, when climbing up a damaged house roof in the Standean hamlet, I came nose to grenade with an unexploded Mills Bomb which had been thrown as part of an army training exercise. The pin had been withdrawn but the arm had not fully disengaged when it landed in the roof timbers, hence its unexploded condition. Had my weight moved a timber and the arm fully disengaged 鈥� ! We occasionally threw live cartridges, (there were plenty available), into the fire where they exploded in the heat, the bullets flying where they would. I recall, too, throwing down tiles from a shed roof in Standean. True it was already derelict but it was an act of vandalism. I suspect vandalism is a part of many boys鈥� nature. Most weekends we had some activity. We are photographed sitting in a Centaur tank body in Happy Valley, working our way around a commando course and attempting to jump brooks near Lewes.
Looking back after many years, Den, Watty and I were amazed at our lack of regard for danger and absence of fear during those weekend activities. In our defense it must be said that we were left to our own devices. There was not the interest in or provision for youth which developed after the war. Many parents were worried by the dangers our elder siblings in the armed services might be experiencing. If we didn't provide our own entertainment no one else would. "We", Den whose elder brother was a marine commando somewhere in Europe remarked, "were nothing". In that context, one can see the debt owed to Chummy.

Part 4B

Patrol camps. When, on the umpteenth occasion I put together my things prior to taking my patrol off for a weekend camp, Alf protested. His equivalent of me using home as a hotel. He had a valid point, by this time Nellie had died and he was on his own. He didn鈥檛 really have anyone to cultivate his allotment for and his future must have seemed bleak.
We were off to Mayfield to camp on the farm of the two women I had worked for when at school camp and who were happy to have us stay. We did token work for our keep and slept under canvas or sometimes in one of the poultry rearing buildings. Dusty and feathery they must have been thoroughly unhygienic and a potential health hazard.
We cycled to Mayfield. It is roughly 27 miles from Brighton to the site, by Den鈥檚 calculation, and we carried our kit and provisions for the weekend on our backs. I was by now seventeen and the younger scouts can only have been 14 or so. But we did it. We cooked our own food and amused ourselves. Just how I can't remember. It was dusk or dark by the time we reached home on Sunday or, if it was a bank holiday, Monday evening. The blackout was no more, D-Day had been and gone. It was uphill for the last mile or two to Ditchling Road. Bigger scouts carried kit of the smaller boys.
Visits to Mayfield became quite regular events. In his patrol log Den recorded a trip he and I made on Sunday 4th February 1945 to arrange the Easter Camp. Writing in the 3rd person he wrote; 鈥楽tarting at 11am they arrived at Mayfield at 1.45pm 鈥�.. During the afternoon they helped the woman farmer and were amply rewarded with apples and milk. They left at 6pm and arrived home at 8.45pm 鈥�. The camp was arranged for 20th March 鈥� 2nd April鈥�.

Small Dole camp was in its infancy as an official scout camp site but our ad hoc group occasionally went there for weekends and made a modest contribution to removal of scrub or ditch clearing. Across the minor road from the camp site was a wild area with a large, deep lake where we swam and fished with, literally, bent pins and string on sticks. So bored were the small carp that they took our bread-paste on Sunday mornings and found their way into our waiting breakfast frying pan, sizzling on a small fire of twigs. Dare I admit they were still alive. But not for long. They were so small we ate them like sprats, bones and all.

Charity Concerts. On less than a handful of occasions the scouts were invited to take part in concerts in St Matthias Church Hall in aid of some cause or other. There was always a deserving cause. Ernie Coleman was ever in demand for his musical skills on piano and piano-accordion but the rest of us had little to offer. Nevertheless, we could usually provide a sketch or two which we handled so badly that the point or punch-line was often lost.
Our other 'items' included performances with 鈥榡olly boys鈥� which were probably more accurately known as board puppets. An introductory item in front of the curtain set the scene for our puppets which were made from wood fully jointed with wires and supported on a length of dowel fixed to the small of their backs. The puppeteer held the end of the dowel and played the jolly boy whilst seated on a thin, narrow plywood board which projected from between his legs and which was bounced by tapping it. The tapping rattled the jolly boy鈥檚 feet and he danced and waved his arms to musical accompaniment. After the first verse the curtain raised on, perhaps, a dozen or more of us scouts seated with our jolly boys. "Dance, dance, dance Mr Jolly Boy鈥︹��.", we sang as we rattled our boards.
The jolly boys were home-made by us, often, assisted by our fathers. Apart to from them being pretty much the same, agreed to, overall height, they were different patterns and of different colours. Mine had a dark green top hat, shoes and buttons on his jacket while the rest of it was 鈥榮tone鈥� coloured. As Alf had a penchant for those colours they always featured in our house painting leftovers, appeared on the toy fort Alf made for me, on ally boards and on the jolly boy.
Acts were not restricted to just scouts, indeed, we were merely support. A baritone regularly gave a rendering of Come to me Flora, Come into the garden Maud and other ballads which had survived from King Edward鈥檚 reign which was, perhaps, when the soloist first sang them. There were instrumental acts and male and female duets which also echoed earlier reigns. But the number which always elicited an encore was our song and dance act for which we were dressed as fairies. Bob Kent with his black curly hair, winning smile and twinkling eyes carried a very natty wand and made a good fairy but most of us were pretty uninspiring. Fully grown scouts with powerful, hairy legs provided the contrast and the laughs. The audience wanted to be amused and in the war years they cheered and clapped. I have an idea the act closed with one of the men 'flying' and being caught by the other.
Our closing act was the inevitable mass choir with Riding along on the crest of the wave, (as performed by Ralph Reeder鈥檚 Scouts Gang Show just prewar), with actions demonstrating riding waves and eyes fixed on the distant horizon for people to hail as they passed by. As many in the audience were the parents of the scouts taking part the choir made a high note for finale.
Then, it was out to the blackout, getting caught up in the heavy curtain which prevented light escaping to guide passing Nazi bombers.

Church hall dances. Some, probably most, Saturday evenings there were dances in St Matthias Church Hall. Music was provided by Ernie Coleman and his band which sometimes had as many as four or five instrumentalists. Other instruments were played by whoever was available. I'm not sure what happened when Ernie went into the services. Nor can I remember any vocalists but they must have sung.
The hall was not a particularly glamorous venue but it was the best we had. Indeed, it was all we had. Chairs from the Church ringed the dance floor which was swept and sprinkled with a powder to help shoes and boots glide to Ernie's rhythm. Waltz, quick step and foxtrot were the principal steps but the rumba and tango were not unknown to St Matthias Hall and exhibitionists swayed and rocked as the rest admired or sniggered. Just occasionally, by request, Ernie would produce music for jive. Then there were group dances such as the Lambeth walk, palais glide and hokey cokey.
We local lads were taught the basic steps by the girls. Some of us never went beyond watching our feet as we shuffled. If the hall was crowded we shuffled and cuddled as the last waltz was played and some of the lights were switched off. The hall had its own distinctive but indescribable smell which seemed to reassert itself within 24 hours of the dancers leaving, taking with them, most of their body odours and cigarette smoke.
The only seating was the chairs around the floor so one could establish eye contact across the floor with prospective partners before making a move. Only soft drinks were available and if, during the interval, people popped down to the Stanmer for a drink they were not readmitted. Well, not if their absence was noticed.
By 1942 Canadian troops were stationed nearby. Some found their way to our hall where they added glamour and sophistication to the dances for the local girls. To us boys, they tended to be heroes. They were, generally, larger than British males and they conjured up images of bears, lakes and forests. To us they were all lumber-jacks. They were honeypots for some of the flightly local girls. The elder sister of one of our group in the scouts, who was about 16, became the mother of one Canadian's baby. The day of the single parent family was 20 or 30 years away from Hollingbury in the 1940s and Joan was despatched to a relative. In due course the grandparents adopted the baby.
Many of the Canadians were of course young, homesick and lonely. Too many were killed during the Dieppe raid on the 19th of August 1942. They earned our respect for that exploit.
Dances finished at 10 or 10.30. And so to the blackout.
If one had a girlfriend the blackout was a godsend, particularly on warm evenings when the bench on the top path of the Beech Woods provided a place to sit, cuddle, kiss and explore the fastenings of bra straps and the elasticity of knicker tops. By now we were in our mid-teens but by the standards of later decades we were very inexperienced and naive. Only a minority had lost their virginity by the time they entered military service.

Well into the war came the Morrison Table-Shelter within which a family could spend the night if a raid was threatened. It was designed to meet the needs of families who lacked the garden in which to dig in an Anderson Shelter or who were not prepared to leave their home in an air raid. The Morrison was 6鈥�6鈥� by 4鈥� and, when assembled, stood dining room table height. It came, what would in later years be known as, 'flat pack' which meant the householder was provided with a collection of heavy angle-irons, four sheets of wire mesh, a collection of steel lathes and springs, an eight feet by four feet piece of steel sheet and a small sack containing a spanner and lathe hook and collection of nuts and bolts. There were, as I discovered many years later, 219 parts excluding nuts and bolts but, I suspect, the parts included the steel lathes which provided the foundation for the bedding and provided an important role should the building be hit and the whole heavy shelter collapsed through the floor. Heaven knows what it all weighed.
Part of a Scout's contribution to the war effort was erecting Morrison's, (they were named after Herbert Morrison who was a minister in the government), for householders who sought their help. Whenever Chummy's notices included a plea for help from Mrs Bloggs in Dover Road we senior scouts gave a quiet groan. Erecting the shelters was a dirty, heavy job which carried a guarantee of a crushed finger nail, cut arm or bruised something. It was usually a patrol job.
In the front garden when we arrived at Mrs Bloggs home was the heap of greasy but at the same time rusty steel pieces. Mrs Bloggs took us to the 11 feet by 10 feet room, still furnished, in which the 6鈥�6鈥� by 4鈥�0鈥� Morrison was to be erected. Decisions were made about whether the carpet was to be taken up and which pieces of furniture at present in the room should be moved and to where.
When the four bottom angle-irons and corner posts had been loosely assembled Mrs Bloggs usually decided it should be repositioned nearer to or further from the door. Then, the top angles, the steel top, the mattress lathes, which had to be sprung into holes using the purpose-made lathe-hook. This was a hernia inducing task in a small room. Even in a large room it was unpopular. Smaller scouts lined up the holes in the angles and top with the pointed end of the spanner and inserted the smaller bolts. Seldom did all holes line up. Even the mesh sides which created the cage and were an important stability feature presented problems.
It took a long evening during which the householder almost inevitably but often ungraciously lost some paint from contact of steel with door-frame. We went home dirty, greasy, tired and damaged and almost invariably very poorly rewarded for our efforts. A bob, (one shilling, five new p), had been established as the reward for a 'job' undertaken by scouts and few people seemed inclined to overpay us. The shilling went to Scout funds. Mothers greeted dirty, greasy and torn clothes with unkind words and lack of enthusiasm. I washed my own 鈥榳orking鈥� clothes and they were always below a Mum鈥檚 standard of cleanliness.
On the Varndean chat-line in the next century a former pupil, born in 1939, recalled how his mother would bundle him, aged 4 or 5, out of bed in their house in Gordon Road and run with him to Grandad鈥檚 where they took shelter in his Morrison. His earliest memory was watching the stars as Mum hurried to Grandad鈥檚. Gordon Road was just within our Morrison 鈥榩atch鈥�. We might well have constructed his shelter. 500,000 Morrisons were distributed and, post-war information records, saved many lives.

Kayaks. After the Allies invaded France in 1944 we knew it was only a matter of time before our beaches would again be opened to the public. We started thinking of making kayaks but materials were hard to come by. It was possible to buy small quantities of timber but coverings were virtually unobtainable. Then we recalled we had seen a canvas deteriorating in a field just off Ditchling Road. Clearly, no-one loved it or cared about it and soon it would have deteriorated beyond any use; or so we argued among ourselves.
We developed a strategy. As a single sheet we could not manage it so it had to be divided. We planned, from afar, where cuts should be made in the sheet and devised tactics for its procurement. At a prearranged time a small group of us, which included a future superintendent of police, struck. The sheet was cut and loaded between the frames of cycles. With the canvases in position it was impossible to peddle so others pushed us and pedaled frantically. Fortunately much of the route was downhill and when we approached habitation we separated into parties which went in different directions.
John and I had one part of the canvas. We bought a blueprint for a double kayak from the Scout Shop, timber from a merchant and commenced work in John's father's workshop where he, his mouth full of tacks, helped secure the canvas to the frame. The end product was heavier than one would like but it worked and Orca, the killer whale, was registered and kept on the beach at Kemp Town.
We had some thrills and spills in Orca when we took it out in a heavy sea and tried to turn too close to the shore. A wave, broadside on, turned us over. And over. The kayak filled with frothy sea and we struggled to retrieve it from the incoming waves. Kayak plus water was too heavy for us. As we emptied it so another wave arrived and filled it. Eventually we cut a long slit in the canvas and slowly lifted the craft between waves. When enough water had escaped through the slit we lugged the kayak up the beach, soaked and cold. The wind was strong, the sky was grey and I can still smell the mixture of seaweed and brine.

We were nearing the end of my scouting life and I was entering a sort of no man鈥檚 land where I was neither here nor there. All very unsettling.

(In addition to my pocket diary this part draws on records of patrol camps and audio-taped collective reminiscences of Den, Watty and the writer during meetings some forty years on. The draft was read by the others and sundry amendments made.)

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