´óÏó´«Ã½

When the war started I was 14 years old, working on my father’s farm for 2/6d a week. As a member of the Young Farmers Club I, together with my colleagues, was invited to take part on November 9th 1939 in The Lord Mayor’s Show in London.

We left Horsham on a frosty morning in our overcoats and boarded the London train at 5.30 in the morning. On arrival in the City we were greeted with a sky full of barrage balloons and sandbags everywhere. We were taken to Finsbury Square, had our overcoats taken away and given thin white coats. The march moved off at around 10.00 a.m. and the salute was taken by Winston Churchill at the Admiralty building in the Mall. 3,000 of us young people ended up in Wellington Barracks, where one Lyons tea van. We were each given a packet of sandwiches and an apple. There our march was terminated.

Three of us farm lads pooled our money, which wasn’t very much, and bought a ticket each to go to the Whitehall Theatre to see Phyllis Dixie in her Strip Show. It was here that a section was added to my education, to be followed and completed by the arrival of the Women’s Land Army on the farms living in the South-east.

We were well aware of The Battle of Britain. The one occasion was when I was sitting on an iron horse rake, drawn by our Welsh mare ‘Polly’. An air battle was in full cry overhead and suddenly a Junkers 88 was shot down, two parachutes left the plane and it crashed two fields away, where it blew up and the tail section went way up into the sky only to land in the next field. Meanwhile my mother was beside herself worrying over me.

In June my father was offered a contract by a London haulage firm to load 30 ft timber larch trees onto lorries that would take them to London to float on sewage ponds and reservoirs, so as to stop German seaplanes landing, simply because he owned a Fordson tractor. The work required three tractors so two of his friends joined us. We worked hard all the summer, this was at the same time as the Dunkerque tragedy took place.

Farming, with this injection of cash, became a little easier. And then new faces, new accents took over life, the Canadians had arrived. Many came from farms such as ours. The made us a second home. I often wondered if it was because we had a land girl, Vera, who had three friends, May, Margaret and Freda. We were never without company and willing helpers! In the following morning, Vera would relate what happened the night before, often with a demonstration. How my education improved. The things I learnt! Sadly all our Canadian friends took part in the St Nazare raid and we never saw them again.

Work was hard but more enjoyable. I still wanted to join the RAF but as I was in an essential reserved occupation, this was not to be. The suppers at night at the YWCA were brilliant. I was then through my 15, 16, 17 years. The bombers flew over us to London, occasionally dropping their bomb loads around us. One afternoon a ME109 fighter was shot down on the farm, I picked up its cockpit hood in our farmyard, it went on to crash across the field. This was the first time I had ever seen a man badly burnt. The Canadians arrived first and they were going to take him for his last ride, except they were closely followed by our police. They objected and a second war nearly broke out. However, an ambulance arrived and took this injured man to hospital. Sadly he died and was buried in Horsham Cemetery, his name Alfred Leinz.

On Saturday February 10th 1945, the sky was black with RAF bombers, 1000 at a time going on daylight raids. I came into dinner at 1.00 pm. and then suddenly an almighty explosion took place. I rushed to the front door, only to see nothing except soil, trees and smoke, a fully loaded bomber had crashed two fields away into a valley onto the golf course. As I watched I saw a parachute land on the top of an oak tree in the next field. At the age of 17, I raced across to where this chap was trapped. As I ran across, an RAF Auster touched down, then on seeing me it took off again. I clambered up this substantial oak and released this RAF man and I helped him climb down. On reaching solid land, he remembered he wanted his parachute, so I climbed back up the tree, and believe me this was far more difficult than saving a man. However, together with the rolled up chute and my new friend, we started to walk back to where I thought the plane might be. We hadn’t gone far when we came across a crew member who didn’t have a parachute. This was a horrible sight and my companion passed out. By now I was joined by the police and they took over.

50 years later, in February 1995, I had a telephone call at Winterpick Farm. I had succeeded my father as the farmer. At around 8.00 p.m. the phone rang. A voice asked me if I was John Christian? Did I live at Winterpick Farm? Would I cast my mind back to February 10th 1945? My reply was ‘Not really’. His response was ‘You must remember rescuing the RAF chap out of a tree!’ Of course I did and I invited him to be my guest for a weekend. This he did. He was by now quite an old gentleman. He said he had always had a last wish — just to thank me for saving him. He went back home to the North and I have never heard from him again.

John Christian
12 November 2003

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.