大象传媒

At the outbreak of World War 11 on the 3rd of September 1939 I was 15yrs of age and living with my parents, grandmother and two younger sisters on the outskirts of a small market town in Oxfordshire. Father was employed as the District Surveyor to the Chipping Norton R.D.C. Mother was a fulltime house wife who such an accomplished seamstress that she made cloths for the entire family and, helped by grandmother, did the catering and general running of the house. Each day in term time I caught the school bus to the Grammar School some 5 miles distant. The day war broke out, most of the female population visited the local draper鈥檚 shop to purchase blackout material for making curtains, while father began arranging accommodation for the evacuees from London who would be arriving by train. With all of the folk, there was a feeling of a mix of excitement and apprehension of the unknown that set the adrenalin running full tilt.

At the start of the autumn term we were greeted at school by roughly erected air-raid shelters on the school playing field, after which there would ensue the occasional air-raid practice when, with gas masks slung over our shoulders, the pupils would be shepherded to the shelter. Men in uniform began to appear on the streets, British troops at the beginning, then servicemen from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and other parts of the Empire, each with their distinguishing shoulder tabs.

Father ordered a sectional concrete air-raid shelter for the home which the local builder erected on the back garden. Soon the Luftwaffe began their nighttimes bombing offensive. When the siren sounded we would troop in our night attire to the shelter which was semi underground and always felt cold and damp. In winter it was so cold sleeping in the bunk beds that one night when the siren sounded yet again, I declared that I would rather stay in my in the house and take my chance with Luftwaffe bombs than catch pneumonia in the shelter. Our house was unfortunate enough to lie directly underneath the flight path of the bomber squadrons from their bases in occupied France when targeting Coventry and cities in the north. On some winters evening s before we had gone to bed, when the siren sounded we would risk standing on the front lawn and wait for the bombers, listening for their engines, and watching them fly overhead on their mission of death and destruction. Against the moonlit night sky these aircraft were an awesome sight flying over at low altitude, their ominous grey shapes almost wing to wing leaving shadows on the ground and trailing parallel lines of vapour that looked though the sky was decorated with silver ribbons. One always knew that it was enemy aircraft approaching because of the undulating sound of their engines, unlike the Allied planes whose engine sound was of an even note. On the Luftwaffe鈥檚 return to the continent we made sure we were in the shelter, because any bombs still in the bays would be indiscriminately jettisoned. There was the added danger that an aircraft damaged by anti-aircraft fire might crash. On one occasion a stick of 3 鈥榮creaming鈥� bombs fell nearby making the ground shake. The second was nearer than the first and we all held our breath for the third, but thankfully it fell further away.

In 1942 I passed my school certificate exams and started work as the Cartographic Draughtsman at the War Agricultural offices in Oxford City. Travelling by train in order to get to work was less than a pleasurable experience for would-be passengers, because we were the lowest priority. Many a morning was spent on a freezing platform as troop trains and munitions trains trundled through, with the occasional locomotive bearing tanks on low-loaders.

At the office, large 鈥攕cale maps of Oxfordshire were in my charge and on them was marked the route of the pipeline PLUTO (pipeline under the ocean) that from D-Day onwards carried all the fuel for the tanks and military vehicles throughout the liberation of Europe. From the Mersey the pipeline ran down the spine of England (through Oxfordshire) to the Isle of Wight, under the English Channel to Cherbourg. The steel pipes were made at Corby, approx. 6鈥� in diameter. The entire length was reputedly laid in one day (12.8.44), with 1 million gallons of fuel being pumped through daily. (Information from TV documentary screened 2004). The route was of course top secret, but I was never asked to sign the Official Secrets Act. If I鈥檇 breathed a word, just imagine a Fifth Columnist or German Spy getting wind of it. It would have been all too easy to lay an explosive charge!!

The story of wartime Britain would certainly not be complete without the mention of the romances that blossomed, and particularly following the entry of the U.S.A into the war. (The bell rang in 1939 but the U.S. didn鈥檛 hear it until 1942). For my own part, when walking to the office from the City centre one lunch hour, I met a man in a uniform that I had not seen before, who turned out to be an American army sergeant doing the rounds of Art Galleries and Museums. He told me his name was Nicholas, and although it was several months before the U.S had officially declared war on Germany and Japan, as he and other members of his unit had enlisted voluntarily they were sent to England as an advance guard. Being stationed at Swindon they had not been seen in the Oxford area before. This friendly stranger was to be my escort for the following nine months. One sunny day in summer when he was granted a week鈥檚 furlough we cycled to Burford some 8 miles distant where he treated me to lunch in the very splendid Cotswold Gateway Hotel. My most vivid memory of this cycle ride was seeing the wide grassy verges stacked for the entire length with piles of bombs and shells. How I wish now that I had taken a camera with me, but like everything else films were near-impossible to come by. Nicholas was an immediate sensation in my little market town as no-one had seen an American serviceman before, and with his athletic 6鈥�.2鈥� frame and impressive personality the net curtains were set a-twitching and passers by would stare , recoil and stage-whisper behind their hands. Needless to say my contemporaries were green with envy! Several months later the U.S Army and Air Force arrived en masse and there were a few single girls of my age who weren鈥檛 swept off their feet by these smartly dressed strangers from overseas. A range of Nissan huts had by now been erected in a field some two miles distant, and various army units from the U.S passed through this camp until D-Day when it was converted into a Field Hospital.

From the start of the war chocolates and sweets were strictly rationed until well after hostilities were ended, but the advent of the G.Is eased this situation greatly. At their P.X. (Post Exchange) on the camp a large variety of items not available to us meant that the more thoughtful G.Is often arrived on the doorstep armed with Hershey Bars and even though it was of inferior quality to our own brands of chocolate it was very welcome.

Pairs of American servicemen would sometimes attend our R.C church in Charlbury, and as we knew they missed their breakfasts at camp on these occasions we would invite them home to have breakfast with us. For a selected few our home was open house. They appreciated having a home from home away from disturbance and irritations of camp life. Two of our favourites in the Medical Corps, when they were given a weekend pass chose to sleep on camp beds in our sitting room. The bed s were far from being the height of comfort, there was no heating of any kind, plus a mantel clock that chimed loudly every quarter hour. They used to arrive with cartons of chocolates, tobacco and razor blades. Tom and Joe were much missed when they embarked for D-Day.

Early on in the war father joined the Special Constabulary as a Sergeant, ending up as an Inspector, during most of which time was spent guarding wireless poles. He said he must have done a good job because none of them ever went missing. At other times he would patrol the town looking for lights that had not been blacked out. With fears of Fifth Columnists signalling to enemy bombers, this was a very legitimate fear. For several worrying nights when a light pierced the sky from the centre of the town, it was a huge relief when father tracked the source down to a forgotten house roof skylight!

Mother and I had offered our spare services to British Hospitals, only to be told in no uncertain terms that they were only interested in people who were medically qualified. Next we offered our services to the American Red Cross at the Field Hospital where we were welcomed with open arms. They had a full complement of their own medical personnel, but gratefully made use of mother鈥檚 gift for sewing, while I was in demand for my draughtsman鈥檚 skills. By far the most useful and popular piece of work I did was a wall-sized chart listing the train timetables to Oxford and London. For the walking wounded this became their first port of call. Father鈥檚 highlight of his voluntary service in the 鈥楽pecials鈥� was standing point duty at a crossroads when George VI passed by and was graced with a salute. At the end of the war father was awarded a medal for his services.

As the Allies made their way through Europe, German prisoners of war were sent into captivity in Britain, and from the train we would often see gangs of Germans and Italians working tin the fields and helping with the harvest in season.

Of V.E day itself I have very little recollection beyond an overwhelming feeling of relief after all the years of fearing an invasion and occupation by Hitler鈥檚 war machine. Stories of the cruelties of the Gestapo and the S>S that had filtered through from other occupied lands were not pleasant.

All our G.I friends survived the war, although Nicholas was wounded so severely at St. Lo that he was sent back to the States. Alas they are all now dead.

Of VJ day I have more recollection. In 1945 petrol was still not available for pleasure because it would be our first holiday since 1939 the family took a train to Exeter to stay with a relative. Imagine my surprise and delight when G.I Frank Harrington met us at the door, for he had been a long-time escort. He was stationed in the American zone of Germany and had elected to spend his furlough with me. It remains a mystery as to how he knew we were in Exeter and the address at which we staying. On the evening of VJ Day we took a bus to the city centre to join in the celebrations. In those days what father decreed had to be obeyed without question, so I knew I had to be home by 10 o鈥檆lock. At 9pm we dutifully headed for the bus stop only to find to our horror that all bus and taxi drivers had abandoned their vehicles to join in the fun. Ahead of us was a 5 or 6 mile walk to my aunt鈥檚 house in the suburbs. Upon ringing the doorbell at around 11pm father answered the door in his pyjamas, with a face like thunder and proclaimed 鈥淲hat time is this for a decent girl to be out?鈥� My explanation cut no ice at all!

Poor mother had aged 10 years in those 5 wartime years in an effort to put good nourishing meals on the table, which she did, without ever having to stoop to the disgusting whale meat which was reasonably plentiful. Grandmother died in 1945 which to me was a bitter blow.

Some 3 years ago I made contact with a German who had been part of the Army of Occupation of the Channel Islands; a part of Britain that Hitler decreed was to be made into a Fortress, a task that kept his troops fully occupied. With the liberation of the Islands the Occupiers were taken P.O.W and soon sent to a camp just 5 miles from my Oxfordshire home. I never met him at the time, but one writes to me regularly, and being a talented artist he never fails to send me a small watercolour painting with his letter plus wartime souvenirs that come to hand.

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