大象传媒

Mrs Olding sold me a kid for 7/6 which I paid for out my school savings stamps ( see: A3458540We move to Haynes, Beds.

Relations with the local boys were initially far from pleasant. I was the the subject of bullying but it toughened me up. Leaving school in the afternoon, running stone fights would develop between the villagers and Londoners which sometimes saw us driven miles from home, outnumbered as we were. When a village boy took a rather serious cut on his head the Headmistress was forced to step in. As we grew up, this tribal animosity abated; we had become either a force to be reckoned with or simply accepted.

Village life in Haynes for children in wartime was very exciting. There were the constant overflights of low flying aircraft, military maneuvers and later on a few doodlebugs. Sometimes with Dad, I would visit airfields where wrecked planes in abundance were being repaired.

The school had 3 mistresses who succeeded in turning me into Prince Charming for the annual play in the village hall two years in a row. Our 鈥渂it鈥� consisted of collecting rosehips and other inedibles from the hedgerows or painting heroic posters for the play. In general, they were wonderful years and I thrived in that environment.

Money was not a problem in those days; the 鈥淕reyhound鈥� was full every night and Dad who was now making 20 pounds a week or more did more than his fair share to contribute to its prosperity causing no small strains on the marriage. The haulage crowd worked on bonus schemes and worked very hard. I would help grease the truck at night unless it was loaded, when the grease would not enter. Later on some of the 鈥渇iddles鈥� were revealed such as driving into and out of the same aerodrome several times over and with the same load.

Our diet in the village was almost normal due to the ability to raise chickens and grow vegetables. It was supplemented by oranges and other exoterica when things fell off the back of Dad's lorry if he was doing a run for the NAAFI. I also recall us having regular supplies of cartons of American processed cheese and large cans of corned beef which had obviously been procured on the black market.

Our house in Plummer's Lane saw the passage of many visitors: relatives from London, relatives on leave such as one uncle who was garrisoned in East Africa and then Palestine. He always brought the most interesting gifts for us children such as curious musical instruments made by the natives. Another uncle was more a more frequent visitor being based in England. He went on to the relief of Bergen-Belsen via the Beaches and was the salt of the earth. In addition, I recall Tony Moran, a boxer friend of Dad's, who was totally browbeaten by his even tougher wife. She went on to drive one of those ubiquitous Bedford or Ford dump trucks and was a match for any man.

A highlight for me came in late summer 1944 when Dad was driving German prisoners-of-war doing agricultural work. By chance they came to our village. At 9 a.m. he would drop off a couple of cooks at our house together with their pots and vegetables. At lunchtime I ran from school to find the house full of about 20 POW's in full battlefield uniform. Their Irish guard had propped up his 303 in the corner and tucked in with the rest. Several were veterans of of the Russian front wearing the Winter im Osten 1941/2 campaign medal. Perfect gentlemen and excellent modelers, they spoiled me with gifts of handmade Stukas, Panzers and Dorniers to the chagrin of my friends in the village who had only Lancs, Blenheims and so on. This lasted for one happy week but we received Xmas cards from some for years after the war.

Dad had learned to become a real poacher under one of the locals. Their crowning moment came in 1944 when on Christmas Eve they hunted the Duke of Bedford's estate secure in the knowledge that all the gamekeepers were typsy. Mum woke up next morning to find dozens of pheasants strewn around her bed together with a few sacks of cabbages which had been liberated en route. On New Years Eve 1944 there was a very memorable party for the Londoners of the village. The menu was roast pheasant, cabbage and a Polish potato pancake which Mum and Grandma called platscki. In a sense it marked our war's end because things were already fizzling out.

I returned my billy goat to Mrs Olding but would not accept her offer of 7/6. He had been a marvellous pet despite his proclivity to bash down the back door and go upstairs to sleep on my bed. We went to Bedford in time for the surrender of Germany and we all started new lives, Mum and Dad in the meat trade and my sister and I in Ashburnham Road School (this was initially a horrible experience for me as I was put in the class of an utter sadist Mackay who took the greatest pleasure in caning his pupils鈥攕orry, this belongs elsewhere but I cannot help it).

I fully recognize that some of these revelations of another side to the war may deeply offend people who served their country as true patriots and suffered because of it. However, I cannot answer for the actions of my father who came out of an immigrant background into a turbulent political period when class relations were quite hostile. In later years the subject was simply dropped and I woke up too late to ask the appropriate questions.

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