大象传媒

England - December 1943

On an early December day, we were billeted under canvas in huge marquees in a camp that had been set up in the grounds of Grimsthorpe Castle in Lincolnshire, having arrived in the early hours of the morning after travelling throughout the night by a very fast train from the docks at Liverpool.

How wonderfully refreshing it was to feel the luscious, thick, green grass underfoot and cool drizzle light as a feather on one鈥檚 face as, with sleep-filled eyes, we scampered hurriedly, sheltering under our waterproof capes to the cookhouse, guided by the delightful aroma of fried bacon wafting over the camp to what by army standards was a very late breakfast. Algiers, with its sunny skies and burning hot sands, seemed a million miles away as we sat down to our first meal at home after a spell of about thirteen months abroad.

Grimsthorpe Castle, one of the stately homes of England, was set in very pleasant surroundings. The castle itself was in a very remarkable state of preservation, with its life-size effigies, beautiful tapestries and musty portraits of proud nobles in ruffs and lace and wonderful murals all around the main hall.

Through the main doorway, doors led off on either side of the corridor where directly ahead was a huge stairway leading to the upper floors. Stirrup pumps and rows of fire buckets lined the corridors looking out of place in such a grand setting. The heavy studded doors of the large baronial hall were open and shafts of sunlight could be seen streaming in through the stained-glass windows coloured with the family crests of past owners; heavy oak panels were carved in minute detail with flowers, nymph-like figures and other forms, brought almost to life by the master craftsmen of bygone years. The castle鈥檚 beautifully-kept gardens displayed lawns and rows of hedges exquisitely fashioned to the shapes of peacocks and other exotic birds, magnificently sculptured statues of heralds and messengers of centuries past.

The headquarters of the battalion were set up in the castle itself, while the companies were spread out over the surrounding area. Lincolnshire, with its flat and pleasantly green countryside, was ideal for the sort of training we were to be given - the usual route marches, toughening up exercises consisting of a sort of Swedish drill with tree trunks and jumping off the backs of lorries into a variety of fails and tumbles as the trucks were travelling across the countryside, which taught one to be as agile as a cat.

We were also involved in many night man艙uvres. One such exercise was to be taken by truck to a spot miles from anywhere in the heart of the country and dumped, armed with only a compass and a large-scale map of the area. Then, by some clever orienteering, we were expected to present ourselves back at camp within a given time. This could turn out to be quite hectic when absorbed in utter concentration, the mind rationalising the body鈥檚 progress as one plunged through undergrowth, crossing streams and thick forests, eyes eagerly scanning the surrounding country for some prominent feature from which to take another bearing.

Apart from the obvious benefits derived from this exercise, it served a very useful purpose in getting us to the peak of physical condition.

I rather enjoyed the fresh clean country atmosphere in Lincolnshire. Not many evenings had passed by before Bill, Frank and I had found a nice little pub for ourselves and were soon feeling our way down its stone steps, worn thin in the middle by the tread of an army of thirsty travellers over the years. The jet-black paintwork of its doors and windows, through which the merry clink of glasses greeted us, stood out in stark contrast to its whitewashed walls. The warm atmosphere and a hum of activity wrapped around us as the door closed behind us. At the bar, an attractive fair-haired girl in a pale blue dress, its material much too inadequate for the time of year emphasising her obvious charms, was pulling pints of beer.

One evening, whilst having a session of more than usual high jinks in the lounge of the pub, the lads with our arms around each other鈥檚 shoulders, were doing a 鈥淜nees up Mother Brown鈥� and as we danced wildly and hilariously in a circle, Big Frank caught the arm of a middle-aged woman as she passed on her way to the 鈥榣adies鈥�. 鈥淐ome on Ma, join in and throw a leg,鈥� he cried, as we went around but in the excitement of the moment her spectacles were knocked off unnoticed by us as we went around again, singing and stamping our feet, completely unaware that we were grinding the poor old dear鈥檚 specs into tiny fragments on the carpet. Naturally, we were all very concerned about the incident, full of apologies and quickly had a 鈥榳hip round鈥� which more than amply paid for the spectacles but we were unable to do anything about the inconvenience it must have caused to the old lady.

Having been granted forty-eight hours leave passes from time to time, we spent many enjoyable weekends at Nottingham, dancing at the Palais de Dance, putting up at the YMCA or Salvation Army place for the night. These people did some really wonderful welfare work during the war years on behalf of the services and no compliment paid them would be too great.

After spending a quiet but very enjoyable Christmas at home with my mother, I went up to visit Bill Wilson and his family for a few days at their farm in Selkirk in Scotland. It was a truly beautiful setting with the fast-flowing River Ettrick close by, where wardens were having a busy time keeping salmon poachers away. They took a very serious view of this and the penalty imposed on anyone caught in the act was 拢50 for the first offence, a considerable amount in those days.

The farmhouse itself stood out among the trees with a beautiful wood of conifers to one side where pheasants nestled among the branches. Anyone with a hunting rifle would be in their element in such an environment. I marvelled at how Bill, with his eagle eyes, could spot a hare moving away in the distance perhaps on the other side of the fields. It would be some moments later that I would be able to pick it out and I had always prided myself on my good eyesight.

Coming out from the cosy atmosphere of the village inn one evening, with the merry din from mingled voices of attractive Scottish accents still in our ears, Bill and I jumped on a couple of bicycles which we had borrowed from the farmyard, probably left there by the land army girls who helped out on the farm. We made for the village hail where the local dances were held. Bill went on ahead into the darkness with a half-bottle of whisky tucked safely away in the back pocket of his trousers. Soon we approached a belt of trees, their branches overhanging the roadway. Anxious that I might take a wrong turning in the inky blackness under the shadow of the trees, as we had no lights on the bikes, Bill shouted over his shoulder, 鈥淎re you alright Dai?鈥�.

The next thing I heard was a crash of metal and body hitting the road. Bill was cursing the devil when I got to him and cried out in mock alarm, 鈥淢y legs are all wet, Dai!鈥�

Pulling the tangled bike away from under him, I said, 鈥淚 hope to hell it鈥檚 blood!鈥� as we both burst out laughing, much relieved that the whisky bottle was intact.

We hid the bottle amongst some felled trees lying outside the dance hall, where a fair mixture of service people were having great fun performing a variety of Scottish reels and other dances. As the night went on Bill and I came out periodically for a 鈥榖reath of fresh air鈥� and a swig from our bottle to fortify ourselves.

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