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June 1st 1940
I’ll start on the sands at Dunkirk. Nothing much needs to be said about our position; there were thousands of British soldiers on the beach, and the German advance was growing closer. My Regiment had arrived at Dunkirk that evening, under heavy fire, and many of us wished for nothing more than to jump into the sea and wash the sweat of many day’s marching from our bodies. Instead, we took cover in some bushes and changed our pants, this in itself wonderful, whilst dodging bullets that were literally skimming past our noses. We waited through the night for dawn and at first light, rushed to the water in our hundreds. I had already discarded my helmet and gun on the beach and once in the water, threw off my boots. It was impossible to swim loaded up with tackle. The beach and sea were in chaos. There were bodies floating in the water and we were under constant attack from machine-gun fire, bombing, explosions sending shrapnel in every direction.
I made a grab for a small rowing boat (God only knows where it came from!) which held about a dozen men, and I managed to get onboard. It was full and wouldn’t take any others. I was lucky. The Germans were bombing any ship they saw taking men aboard, so we rowed around for a while, waiting for our chance. After some time, a motorboat threw us a rope and hauled us up alongside a Warship. It was an exhausting climb up the netting at the side of the ship, but I finally made the deck with the help of a sailor, who leaned over and hauled me up by the arse of my pants!
We arrived in Dover, and were then put straight on a train to Bristol. By now, many of us had become separated from our Companies, and I found myself tagging along with the East Sussex Regiment. We were taken to a park, hundreds of us, where tents were provided, though little comfort this seemed, dirty and exhausted as we were.
I was picked, along with another chap, to be taken in for the night by one of the many local families who turned up to offer food and lodging for the hundreds of soldiers marooned in the park. I got a bath and a shave and a decent nights sleep! The next day I was taken with the family to Clevedon, where we ate strawberries and ice-cream on the beach. It was a strange, queer feeling, somehow funny but very sad. One beach to another in less than 48 hours.
The next day I returned to the park. I had left my remaining tackle behind in the tent and upon my return , found it gone. I ‘d found a pair of shoes from somewhere, I forget quite where, but with no equipment whatsoever, I must have made a very comical picture of a soldier. And so, all of us odds and sods were collected together and sent to Devon, where we were reformed into our own regiments. From here the Cheshire regiment was sent to Bangor in north Wales. I remember a group of us playing soldiers with wooden guns to break the tedium. There were no army lodgings to be had so we spent that first night in the ‘Greek Room’ at the university, this being the only available space to house a sizeable army regiment.
We remained posted in Bangor for a while and, due to the lack of adequate accommodation, once again found digs with the locals. Our next post was Brombough, and during this time, the Germans were heavily bombing the northern cities. I watched Liverpool being bombed, a few of us climbing onto a roof (against strict orders) for a better view! It looked as though the entire city were ablaze.
It was found, to no surprise, that most of us were riddled with lice, crabs and all manner of infestation so we subjected to a pubic shave. Some of the hairier men had to endure a full body shave.
It was at this time that my marriage banns were put up but I was too far away for a wedding; we were allowed only 12 hours leave and I would have had to have spent most of this time travelling. I did not know when, if any, our next move would be; only the drivers had this information, and therefore had to postpone any wedding plans for the time being. The jackpot for me was being posted back to Fletcher Street barracks in Bolton, my home town. I was the only chap in my regiment to be posted back to their home town! The following morning, after arriving in Bolton, I got an interview with the G.O.
‘Permission to get married, sir!’ I asked.
‘Where does the girl come from?’
‘Bolton, sir’.
‘You’ve been bloody quick, haven’t you?’ he said, looking up at me, ‘We only got here yesterday’.
‘We both live in Bolton, sir!’ I told him.
‘You lucky bugger!’
We were married on the 27th of November 1940 at St Peters church, Bolton, at 12 noon. 63 years last november.

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