大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by a volunteer from Northumberland on behalf of Don Simcock. Mr. Simcock fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions, and the story has been added to the site with his permission.

When petrol rationing was really biting, conducting a business that demanded much travelling became very difficult. This demand, plus the fact that our family was split between Dad, Harry Simcock, living in a company air-raid shelter beneath Jack Barclay鈥檚 Rolls Royce showroom in Berkley Square in London and the rest of us in a house in Barton Seagrave (Northamptonshire), meant that an alternative had to be found.

One solution was to purchase a small car, a Morris Eight (Registration Number JG9797) that had a basic ration and could be used when he was with the family. A second solution was rather more bizarre. On the telephone Dad told us that he was coming up for the weekend in a different car to the Ford V8 that he usually drove and would we ensure that the Morris was in the garage 鈥� out of the way!

Sure enough one Friday evening a long, sleek, black pre-war Studebaker glided up to our house, with Dad at the wheel. But perhaps 鈥済lided鈥� is not really the best description 鈥� 鈥淐HUGGED鈥� would be more apposite. The sleek lines of the Studebaker, with it鈥檚 high waistline, which really called for a gang of hoodlums bearing Thompson Sub-machine guns, was spoiled by a contraption where the boot, or trunk as it is called in the U.S., would have been. This sight coupled with a copious volume of smoke was indeed rather terrifying because an explosion seemed to be a distinct possibility!

Once this monster had rolled to a stop in the drive, Dad alighted with what appeared to be a giant corkscrew, which he inserted in a hole at the bottom of the contraption and then proceeded to turn, causing glowing cinders to be ejected onto the drive, which, fortunately, was of concrete. The rear seat of the Studebaker was covered with sacks of Anthracite (a small, hard coal) that was the fuel for the gas-generator plant at the rear of the vehicle.

Once Dad had cleaned himself of soot and coal dust, the monster was left to cool down. However, in order to get going on Monday morning the reverse procedure had to be followed. At four a.m. Dad was outside with a burning paraffin soaked rag, on a stick trying to light the freshly charged 鈥渇urnace鈥� which, all going to plan, would generate the gas on which the car would run, once started with some of the precious petrol ration. The term 鈥渞un鈥� is rather ambitious 鈥� chug would be better! On any journey of more than a few miles the corkscrew would have to be used, to clear the clinker from the fire, which meant that every so often on the road from Barton Seagrave to London a small pile of ciders could be seen!

Incidentally the company air-raid shelter in Berkley Square was quite an amazing place, fully furnished to a very high standard, with all mod cons. There was even an air-conditioning system which blew air into the place through pretend windows, complete with curtains which fluttered in the breeze, and special lamps to give the illusion of daylight!

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