大象传媒

On one bicycling expedition, during the war, as we were traversing the cross-roads on our way towards the station, we noticed that three large cylinders had been placed just above the ditch on the SE corner. We were curious and stopped to read the sign. It inferred, in rather technical language that these cylinders could be used to douse a fire in an emergency. I'm not sure that we even connected then with 'The War Effort', but I do remember thinking 'we should try these out to see if they work'.
By reading the instructions I gathered that by pulling out a pin and depressing a handle, it would start! It sounded like fun and was too good an opportunity to miss... but no sooner had I followed the instructions than foam was issuing everywhere. "OK - OK, it works!.... Now , how do I stop it?" I lifted the handle, the foam was really starting to cover a large section of the bank and I was worried that a car would go past and we would be reported, or worse still a policeman would come along on his bicycle. Nothing I could do helped and Trevor was pretending he didn't know me. Finally, in panic, I thrust the nozzle into the underbrush of the ditch and the foaming diminished slightly. We took to our bikes, pedalling furiously up Station Hill and right onto the Graffham road, hoping that we hadn't been spotted making our getaway.
It was our habit on a fine day, to cycle off into the country, perhaps with a picnic packed by our Mum, who was probably more than pleased to see the back of us for a few hours, while at the same time worrying as to whose hay-rick we would burn down. On this, as on many such occasions, we would mentally toss a coin at each road junction. Left here, now right, right again, now left, now right , now straight on, having no notion where we heading but sure that we would eventually come across a recognizable landmark when it was time to head home. On this day we were cycling home along an exposed road fairly high up and able to see for miles across the fields to our left, but just below the sweep of the Downs near Graffham, when a plume of purplish-grey smoke caught our attention in the distance. It seemed to come from a wooded area and we decided to work our way towards it. Small lanes dot the Sussex countryside and almost every field is separated from its neighbour by a lane or a cart-track. Slowly but surely we reached a small wood. There was now more smoke and a raging inferno and in the middle of the trees the mangled wreckage of a large aeroplane. We dropped our bikes and headed closer. On the road was an ambulance and two cars. Several people from a nearby cottage were gaping at the scene as firemen with hoses struggled to connect and direct a stream of water at what we now saw was a crashed bomber. We couldn't see any markings and asked at random: "Is it German or English?" Someone said it was American, and then we saw firemen endeavouring to drag the wounded airmen out of the plane, while all the time the fire raged and bullets were whistling through the trees. At first we wondered where the shots were coming from. It hadn't occurred to us that we were in danger.
Finally, a policeman detached himself from the group of rescuers and shouted at us to move back "if we didn't want to get killed". The heat of the inferno was causing the ammunition to fire off at random and there was an expressed anxiety that there may be bombs on board which could also explode.
The speculation was that it was returning from a bombing raid over France or Germany. Whether it was British or American we never found out, but in retrospect, I think the American Air Force conducted the daylight bombing raids with the RAF taking the night sorties and this crash occurred in the late afternoon.
It was a text-book lesson for us not to mess with fire-extinguishers laid out at strategic points to be ready at hand in just this kind of tragedy. We felt as though our earlier curiosity had struck a blow on behalf of Adolf Hitler and we were determined to mend our ways in future.

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