大象传媒

A LETTER READ OUT ON 大象传媒 RADIO SCOTLAND by Keith Leigh, now residing at Seabright, Worthing, on September 7, 1986.

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In the winter of 1940/41, the family home was located on the west bank of the Mersey, facing the Liverpool Docks a mile across the river. This took us out of the main firing line, we liked to think, and it was just as well we were then blissfully unaware that the inbound routing for the Normandy based Luftwaffe took them up the Irish Sea, turning right abeam the lights of Dublin, and eastwards across the Welsh mountains to Liverpool. It was on reaching the West Bank that they first encountered a hostile reception from an irate populace. Fainter hearts deciding that was far enough as they reached for the bomb release handle.

But life, as always, had its compensations. Bombs that overshot the residential west bank or undershot the docks falling noisily into the river. Good tidings quickly spread to a beleaguered population that give or take a couple of hours the surf line would start to offer manna from heaven in the shape of stunned fish. Cod, whiting, flatfish, all had indeed surrendered to the might of the German Air Force, and flapping gently, awaited collection. But timing was of the essence, the object being to beat the "All Clear" by a couple of hours, an event which released a host of competitive fish collectors from the bomb shelters.

So it was one May Saturday night, protected by a purloined tin helmet, and that immunity from premature oblivion that only a 16 year old can vest in himself, I set forth with my collecting bucket. Hopes were high, as more than the average stick of bombs had made satisfying bangs in the river, though this may have been due to the arrival that evening of a convoy which was anchored awaiting the tide. They were a touch unlucky, as it proved to be a peak night in terms of Liverpool raids. Arriving at the sea wall, and taking a quick look to see where the tide line was, I was more than a little startled to see men lying prostate face down against the wall. This I must confess threw me -- calculation suggesting a tin hat and a tin bucket might be somewhat inadequate against a downed and heavily armed German Aircrew, and a now wiser young head was withdrawn below the parapet for some quiet contemplation. But sadly, with anti aircraft shrapnel (and worse) pinging down in all directins, "quiet" contemplation was a bit thin on the ground that night, and enough courage was eventualy mustered to take a second look and make a head count. By the time it passed ten, morale was climbing -- surely that was too many for an aircrew? -- and soared even higher when a Glasweigan voice floated up out of the darkness to enquire "Did Jimmy know where there might be a good airshelter?" This "Jimmy" could deliver, and feeling rather like the Pied Piper, led his dispirited band up the steps to the home on the promenade where his family were sheltering in a bricked in and well shored up basement. The rest of the night being devoted to brewing weak tea on a faltering gas supply for our unexpected guests.

They turned out to be the crew of an oil tanker parked in front of us, and being the only survivor of three tankers that had set out in convoy, felt they had already pushed their luck beyond the call of duty. As the fury mounted they decided to vacate their ring side seat perched on 20,000 tons of aviation fuel, drop a lifeboat and row for shore and safety.

We never did get the fish that night, but compensation WAS forthcoming when the ship, still unscathed, berthed next day and a quite unheard of object, a side of ham, was delivered to the house. It is difficult to believe in a job as hazardous as his, that Glasweigan "voice" could have made it to 1945, let alone 1986, but it would be nice to know if he and his companions pulled through?

And the morale raising tune whistled as I set off swinging my bucket? A corny little number that subsequently sank without trace. "They can't black out the moon". Though there were times when THEY might have tried harder!

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