大象传媒

World War II
On 3rd September 1939 I celebrated my 7th birthday and Great Britain commemorated the event by declaring war on Germany. I remember our elderly next-door neighbour, Mr Harry Carter, coming round to our humble house in Welling, Kent, for the second time that day to listen with my mum and dad to the news. It was about midday and the adults went into the front room, normally used only when we had company. I and my two brothers Ron and Cliff, sensing some drama filed noisily in behind them, laughing and jostling. 鈥淪hush, shush鈥� we were admonished by mum, as dad tuned in the Murphy wireless set. Of course, there was no TV then and the word radio had not yet been imported from America: neither had Transatlantic accents, razzamataz, theme tunes, or any of the other hype which seems mandatory in any broadcast today. Just the sombre, reassuring tones of Big Ben, chiming out the hour followed by 鈥淗ere is the news, and this is Alvar Liddel reading it.鈥� spoken in perfectly modulated Oxford English. And then the voice of the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain informing us that the ultimatum delivered in Berlin that morning had not received a response by the deadline of 11 a.m. and, as a result, Great Britain was now at war with Germany.
At the age of 7 this sounded very exciting, despite the serious faces and grave conversation taking place between my parents and the elderly Mr Carter. And the excitement was reinforced when no more than a few minutes after the news a high-pitched noise wailed out over the rooftops. Dad told us that this was an air-raid siren being tested, and we quickly learned to recognise the difference between the rise and fall of the 鈥楾ake Cover鈥� alarm and the constant note of the 鈥楢ll Clear鈥� - a far pleasanter note, rather like that made by my humming top when I pumped it hard. I鈥檓 sure I must have received some presents on my 7th birthday but the excitement of the events eclipsed all recollection of what they were. My playthings that day were the scaffold boards and poles that my dad pulled out from behind the garden shed, with which he was to convert our dining room into a fortress to protect the Scott family from the air raid bombing which was expected imminently.
I can see my youthful dad now, sawing dozens of scaffold poles to the height of the picture rail in the dining room. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 the saw saying, son?鈥� my dad asked as he pushed the hand saw鈥檚 gleaming blade through the round poles, sending showers of pine-scented sawdust onto the lino;
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know, dad鈥� I replied, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 hear it talking鈥�. 鈥淚t鈥檚 saying 鈥業鈥檒l do my best, I鈥檒l do my best, I鈥檒l do my best鈥欌�� dad replied as he kept up the steady rhythm. For over 60yrs now I鈥檝e chanted that phrase to myself whenever I use a saw. The poles were to support cross beams and sufficient scaffold boards to completely cover the ceiling. And we helped dad fill and place sandbags in the space between the ceiling and the scaffold board deck, just leaving sufficient room for an emergency supply of tinned food behind one of the loose boards. I was always waiting for the emergency to occur so that I could get at those tins of Melon & Ginger jam just over our heads.
Warsaw had already been heavily bombed into submission and the Government of Great Britain had been quick to give publicity to the expected ordeal of war from the air. Amongst my long-lost souvenirs of the war was a copy of the Picture Post (price 3 pence) dated 27th May 1939 with the front cover bearing a picture of an early AFS - Auxiliary Fire Service volunteer. And later in September 1939 it was possible to collect cigarette cards about 鈥榓ir raid precautions鈥�; 鈥榟ow to equip your refuge room鈥�; 鈥榟ow to put on your gas mask鈥�; and even 鈥榟ow to put out an incendiary bomb鈥�! Then came the King鈥檚 proclamation calling up army and air force volunteers and posters telling us that 鈥淗e will send no warning - always carry your gas mask鈥� and exhorting mothers to 鈥渟end them out of London鈥� referring to the children. Fortunately, my dad was not called up as he was engaged on essential work, which we later learned was to do with the design and construction of steel structures such as Bailey Bridges, PLUTO (Pipe Line Under The Ocean), Mulbery Harbours and other defence and military equipment. I don鈥檛 know if my brothers and I were consulted in the decision not to be evacuated. I am quite sure that we all wanted to stay together - and perish together if that was what fate had in store. In any event, we were well prepared for survival.
We declined the indoor Morrison shelter for the outdoor Anderson Shelter. In our case, this really was 鈥榠n the garden鈥� because we all helped dig a huge hole, mix up tons of concrete, and bury the corrugated sheeting under the earth - complete with a strawberry patch on top as mother didn鈥檛 want the garden spoiled. We also constructed fitted bunk beds and a blast-proof door. But when the long Winter and Spring of anticlimax finally came to an end and the Battle of Britain began we had become used to sleeping under the solid oak table in the fortified dining room and did not use the garden shelter until the really heavy bombing of London - just after my 8th birthday.
The Battle of Britain began on 8th August 1940. By this time, Hitler had conquered most of Western Europe and was ready to tackle Great Britain; to destroy our defences in readiness for invasion. In our dining room 鈥榖unker鈥� hung a large map of the World - much of it then coloured pink, identifying the British Empire. Around the border of the map dad had stuck cigarette cards of warships and we plotted the progress of the war by moving and pinning small coloured flags of the allied and axis powers according to the reports received from the 大象传媒 news broadcasts and the daily newspapers, which we scanned for 鈥榠ntelligence鈥�. We certainly became familiar with the geography of Europe, and later of Asia and the Pacific. This was just as well, as formal schooling at that time consisted of half days only, and later most of that was spent in dark, dank, school air-raid shelters playing a game rather similar to today鈥檚 Trivial Pursuit. ('Now Raymond' came the voice of Miss Eglin, our class teacher, from the flickering shadows inside of the brick shelter, 'give me the name of a drink begining with the letter 'H'. Being a rather cheeky lad and wishing to impress the girls, I ignored the obvious answer 'Horlicks' and suggested 'Haig, Miss - don't be vague, ask for Haig', and I enjoyed the laughter that followed). But once out of school we developed other more relevant and exciting skills. With the aid of the Penguin publication Aircraft Recognition (now a collectors item) we were able to watch the dog-fights overhead and distinguish between the enemy鈥檚 single-engined ME 109s and twin-engined ME110s and the various Marks of the British Spitfires and Hurricanes. By August 1940 the Luftwaffe still outnumbered the Royal Air Force by 3 to 1 in aircraft, despite the tremendous improvement in aircraft production masterminded by Lord Beaverbrook. The Messerschmitts were generally faster than the Hurricanes but not as fast as the most Marks of Spitfire and the Germans lost twice as many planes as the RAF. Living between Woolwich Arsenal - the munitions factory - and Biggin Hill, one of the main fighter stations defending London, we saw plenty of action, but it was always my biggest regret at the time that it would all be over before I would be old enough to train as a pilot. The dogfights of early summer filled the air with contrails and the staccato sounds of the aircraft cannons and machine guns as the Spitfires and Hurricanes out-maneuvered the heavily armed Messerschmitts. The first phase of the Battle of Britain saw the bombing of shipping and later concentrated on attacks on airfields with much damage to North Weald, Hornchurch, and Biggin Hill. Later came the Blitz with the pulsating throb of heavy bombers - mainly Dornier 17s (bombload 2000lbs) and Heinkel 111s (bombload up to 5000lbs). Both were fast, but under-armed so they flew in well-drilled formations with ME110s as close escort with ME109s as high cover. On 23rd August 1940 London was the target and on 7th September almost the entire force of Germany鈥檚 heavy bombers pounded the docks. On 8th Sept the bombing raids on ports was repulsed and the planned raid of 11th September was postponed.
My brothers and I were avid collectors of wartime souvenirs and we also became junior pyrotechnic experts. We helped older kids with newspaper rounds, getting up at 6 a.m. to collect items of shrapnel, which littered the local streets after a night of bombing. We got lots of bullet and cannon cases, shell nose-caps, bases, copper driving band, and even bits of spent rocket from anti-aircraft batteries of which we were not supposed to know the whereabouts. During the day we would go into Oxleas Woods, Castle Woods, and Jack Woods and search for unexploded incendiary bombs. We found several caches of these (presumably sabotaged) and sneaked them into my dad鈥檚 shed where we took off the detonators, tipped out the explosive, and rasped down the magnesium bodies of the bomb canisters. This we mixed with potassium permanganate, which came in 鈥楲ittle John Drums鈥� from chemist (who we assured that it was for our mum鈥檚 hair dye) to make our own bombs and fireworks. We found that we could make a self-igniting bomb by ramming this mixture into lengths of copper piping, which we retrieved from bombed buildings before the demolition gangs arrived. In cold weather a small quantity of glycerin could be added before the end of the copper tube was carefully hammered over to seal it. When exposed to some modest heat, such as a small pile of leaves lit under the tube, spontaneous combustion would occur between the glycerin and permanganate and our home-made bomb would explode.
We developed the idea further by wiring up a piece of dad鈥檚 fuse wire inside the copper tube. We were then able to bury our 鈥榖omb鈥� in a hole in our garden and with a length of electric cable connect it up to a fusebox in dad鈥檚 shed. We waited until it was dark and then turned on the power to the fusebox from the safety of the house. There was a great cccrump, from the bomb exploding under the ground, followed by lots of earth crashing down on the shed roof and against our high garden fence. Immediately neighbours came to their kitchen doors to find out what was going on, so we also called out similar enquiries to allay any suspicion. After everybody had gone back indoors we had to go out and fill in the large hole in our garden and remove all signs of our experiment, before daylight returned.
Later, the V1s and V2s started to arrive. The V1s or buzz-bombs were, to us, beautiful inventions and were the pinnacle of excitement to observe with the deep-throated throbbing sound of their liquid oxygen engine; the suspense of waiting for the motor to cut out; and the uncertainty of how and where they would glide before hitting the ground. One landed without exploding at the top of our road, sticking out of the roof of No 236 Northumberland Avenue, some 80 yards from our house. We desperately wanted to get a closer look, and hopefully, some sample bits, but police and Civil Defence workers were soon on the scene and we were among several families evacuated to the local Co-op Hall for the night while it was disarmed. We were inspired then by propulsion and attempted to convert our explosive mixture into a rocket fuel by the addition of sulphur and saltpeter. This worked OK in spent bullet cases that we found, but we gave up when a dangerous experiment with the 鈥榟orse-pistol鈥� that we had made out of copper tubing filled with explosive and lead shot, propelled itself from the school field and onto the roof of the Sullivans鈥� house a few doors up the road from us. The Sullivan family had three sisters of similar ages to us three Scott lads and I had a crush on Margaret the eldest one. She had once shown me her knickers doing a hand-stand outside the school air-raid shelter, but that鈥檚 another story of a different form of excitement for a young teenage lad.
What has most influence on our lives and characters? Is it Nature - or Nurture? Is our character, attitude toward, and outlook on, life mainly predetermined by our genetical makeup - that which is passed on to us physically by our parents and forebears? Or has nurture - the way we are brought up and treated by society and environment a stronger influence? No doubt both nature and nurture have an influence; there are so many factors that make us each different and unique. Even us three brothers - with the same parents and similar childhood environment - are very dissimilar. But we are each of the opinion that living through the Blitz had a profound effect on our outlook and character.

I have recorded in my memoirs my recollections of training with the Air Training Corps after WWII and of my period of National Service in the Royal Air Force from November 1948 to November 1950. As the period of National Service had just then been increased from 18 months to 2 years, there were few being 鈥榙emobbed鈥� and consequently less trades available to RAF national servicemen. Despite my passion to be a pilot, prompted by witnessing WWII dogfights, and by my subsequent ATC training, I declined an offer of aircrew training in RAF on the basis of exchanging my National Service commitment for 7 years as a regular serviceman 鈥� even though this offered twice the rate of pay of a national serviceman! I finally achieved my ambition and got my pilot鈥檚 wings with South Pacific Aero Club in Papua New Guinea in 1979, at the age of 47 and still regularly fly 鈥� on my computer simulator!

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