大象传媒

I was about six at the time of this story. I lived in Newcastleton, a little village about three miles on the Scottish side of the Borders, at 5, Buccleuch Terrace, a two bedroomed house, with my mother, father and two sisters. We had a baby boy during the time that the soldiers came.

They arrived week after week, foot-sore recruits in the final stages of their training, from the army base outside Hawick, about 20 miles away, and gathered in the field in front of our house. Heavy back-packs were discarded, boots removed from often blistered feet. Our quiet little village was the regular stopping-off point for night field training exercises, while the burn running alongside the field was comfort and care for scores of men as they bathed and cooled their aching feet.

At night, their manoeuvres on the hillside behind our house shook our windows with bomb blasts; bursts of rifle fire kept us from sleeping and flares lit up the night sky. Me and my two sisters crept from bed and drew the curtain to look out at what we could see and hear of bangs and flashes, while the village boys headed up on to the practice area to look for flare parachutes and unfired bullets when the soldiers had left. I shudder today to think of them knocking the bullet from the casing, piling up the heap of grey gunpowder and either hitting it with a stone to make it spark, or setting light to it. How nobody ever got hurt doing this I do not know. The flare parachutes were highly sought-after by everybody. You only had to tie a pebble on to the strings, wind it up and throw it in the air to have a fine wee parachute to play with.

The soldiers were accompanied by the cookhouse tent, where they queued with billy cans and mugs for food and tea; much equipment which had to be seen to and many lorries.

Knowing that a little taste of home would be much appreciated, our mother baked little cakes and buns and made kettles of tea laced with real milk from the farm, and sent us over the road to serve it to those lucky enough to be nearest when we arrived at the fence. Because of rationing, we asked the soldiers if they could please exchange a cup our tea for one of their tea cubes. These looked like a speckled oxo cube, with tea leaves, dried milk and sugar. It was a fair exchange, and mother did not mind drinking the no doubt awful brew which resulted from pouring boiling water over it.

The home-made cakes were also very much appreciated and every trip with kettle and bag of goodies was greeted by dozens of squaddies desperate to be one of those who would get a share before our meagre offering ran out.

We children - my sisters were aged four, and 11 at the time, were allowed to wander among the men. Our own daddy was a grocer and in the Home Guard, as his eyesight was too bad to be in the forces. It was all strange and interesting.

But some of these encounters left me with memories which were to last over the years. Many of the men who would soon be fighting on the battlefields of Europe and beyond had left children at home.

I recall one soldier, an officer I judge now, because he wore a flat hat with a skip, and refused our tea and buns, saying instead to "give it to the men". He knealt down beside me and asked my name and how old I was, and said he had two little girls, too. He pulled a photograph from his wallet and showed me his wife and daughters. I often wondered if he made it back to them after the war.

I wonder if he or any of the other soldiers who passed through Newcastleton remember the little girls with the bright copper kettle of tea. Many of them I am sure did not come home from the war, but I would especially like to know if the officer made it home to his family.

The hungry squaddies, confined to the field, also took advantage of our freedom to ask us to go to the local bakery to buy them some buns - and I can remember returning with a massive paper bag bursting with buns for the boys.

I also remember the cheeky ones who asked: "Have you got a big sister?" and who said: "Ask her to come and speak to us", before being disappointed when I said she was only 11!

Camp was a couple of fields away and in no time at all large round tents appeared in the field beside the River Liddle. The soldiers were often asleep if we visited this campsite during the day. I remember being asked to go and waken one very large soldier. "Just shout in his ear" I was told. But manners would not permit such a crass approach, so I remember shaking him gently by the shoulder and saying softly: "It's time to get up now" instead. The look on his face was priceless when he heard the voices outside the tent and guessed who had put me up to it.

There was not much we who would stay at home could do for the soldiers who passed through the village, but I reckon our tea trips to the field of troops made a little of difference for just a few. And perhaps the memory of that small act of kindness brightened at least one day of the war for some of "our boys".

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