大象传媒

They danced the 鈥淔our handed Reel鈥�, in the street, to the accompaniment of an accordion. My parents joined in and we youngsters skipped around the periphery, too young to understand the emotional and mental relief that they were feeling. It was May 8th 1945 and the end of the war in Europe. The church bells were ringing. Later, at a celebration party, I was dressed up as Britannia, complete with shield and trident, long white frock made from parachute material and wearing Bridport Fire Chief, Sam Gluning鈥檚, brass helmet.
Nearly six years, before, I had sat with my mother, that Sunday morning and heard the words, 鈥淲e are at war with Germany鈥�. From then on, the wireless was never switched off and I recall waking up in the night, hearing snatches of the news from the World Service and the test tune, 鈥淗ere Comes the Bogeyman鈥�. For us the bogeyman was Hitler. I started school, for the first time, the week that war was declared.
My parents kept nothing from me and as a consequence, I have vivid memories of wartime. My mother鈥檚 young cousin was killed when the reconnaissance aircraft, on which he was a photographer, was shot down. Two uncles were serving in the forces. The one in the Royal Navy sent us a photograph of a ship iced up. It was apparent from this that he was on the Russian Convoys. He was 鈥榖lown up鈥� twice, putting his survival down to swimming all his life, off West Bay, in the cold sea.
The other uncle was in the Royal Air Force in the Far East, for the duration and a third uncle was in hush-hush technical work. My favourite aunt was twice bombed out of her home, in London, whilst working as a sister at Guy鈥檚 Hospital. Later she was seconded, to the army. I admired her smart uniform. Dad was in the Special Constabulary, (I still have his whistle) and my parents befriended many servicemen. All this is plainly etched on my mind.
In the autumn of 1939, evacuees came from London. We had our lessons in the mornings and they used our classroom in the afternoons, when we went out on Nature Walks. We carried our gasmasks in cardboard boxes, rather like the Three Little Foxes, in A.A. Milne鈥檚 poem carried their handkerchiefs, I thought. The windows of the school were gummed over with criss-cross tape, in case there was an air raid and our astute Headmaster, who was a leading light in the ARP, did surprise drills. We had to put on our gasmasks and get under the desks. At six years old, this worried me, as I wondered if my parents knew that there was an air-raid. I can鈥檛 remember being told that it was only pretend.
In the country we never went hungry. There were plenty of rabbits and vegetables. Wasn鈥檛 the slogan, 鈥淒ig For Victory鈥�, anyway? At school we drank fresh milk and were given Horlicks tablets and rose-hip syrup to supplement our diet. Everyone in the village, appeared to dabble in a bit of Black Market and there were huge tins of dry, army biscuits and condensed milk. Eggs had to be sent to collecting stations, so, even on a farm, we often ate reconstituted egg powder. I remember queuing at the butcher鈥檚 shop for our meat rations. Practically every other food commodity, clothing, petrol and coal, were rationed. Sweets were few and far between. We had ration books and identity cards and wore identity bracelets, (in case we were killed).
There was a commotion late one wet and windy night, when two soldiers knocked at the door. They were lost, cold and soaked to the skin. My parents took them in, gave them a bed, sending them on their way, at dawn, back to their camp, near Loders. Two aloof households had turned them away and I recall my father speaking very angrily about that. A son, on active service, was killed from each of those homes, shortly afterwards.
There were many nights when we heard enemy aircraft droning overhead. They flew over Burton Bradstock, having crossed the channel en route to bomb Bristol, Bath and Yeovil. They sometimes jettisoned surplus bombs on their return. Most landed in the sea but some fell in the fields near by. One bomb was only two hundred yards from where we lived. It went straight down into a wet area and only one of our windows was broken by the blast. My father would carry me outside, at night, to witness the guns being fired at sea and around Portland. I can picture incendiary bombs falling, the searchlights everywhere and the sight of barrage balloons, in the sky.
The wireless brought encouragement from Prime Minister Churchill and tips to assist the war effort from the Radio Doctor and Food Minister. I remember hearing Lord Haw Haw broadcasting his propaganda. We all knew that 鈥淐areless talk costs lives鈥�. We collected waste paper at school, going around to the houses once a week. For this we wore round red, lapel badges. We were 鈥榗ogs in the wheel鈥�. When the boys played at being soldiers, we girls had to be the Red Cross nurses. During 鈥榃ar Weapons Weeks鈥� we sang patriotic songs outside Bridport Town Hall.
The news of young men from Burton Bradstock being killed sticks in my memory. A soldier from Burton Bradstock called and told of his narrow escape from Dunkirk. He recounted how he was fired on as they pulled him into the boat.
The Chesil Beach and hinterland were out of bounds, covered in barbed wire and mines. There were tank traps and pillboxes everywhere. One night the, (usually silent), church bells rang. This was a sign of an invasion. It turned out to be a false alarm but the village men stayed on watch for ages. My father told me that if there was an invasion, all the women and children were to be taken to Beaminster Tunnel, for safety. I doubted that they could transport us the long way there and whether in time.
Aged six, in 1940, I was staying the weekend in Yeovil with family friends. A real adventure it was, too, as Yeovil was bombed and we were woken up in the middle of the night and had to clamber into the Morrison shelter, (a reinforced steel table), in the sitting room. In 1942, I saw hundreds of Canadian troops in our fields on a practice raid for Dieppe. Another year, my parents gave hospitality to a tired British soldier, returned from fighting in Italy. He brought almonds that he had picked off the trees.
The American soldiers arrived in 1943. They were stationed throughout Dorset. My parents befriended many of them. They came for Christmas dinner and enjoyed glasses of local cider with us. One was nicknamed 鈥楲ong Bill鈥�. I did not know their surnames, although my mother wrote to some of their families. My father鈥檚 smoking seemed boosted with Camel cigarettes and we didn鈥檛 go short of canned fruit.
In June 1944, all the GIs suddenly left the area. I was told that they were going to fight the enemy, in France. We were all sad and worried for them and listened avidly to the news on the wireless. Throughout the night of June 5th/6th 1944, the planes, some with gliders, flew on and on overhead. The fighting on the beaches was bloody but the newspapers never told us the full story.
The day the soldiers received their leaving orders, I was at school but they sneaked out to say 鈥淕oodbye鈥� to my parents and left me a black puppy, with the excuse that it was too small for them to take. I called her Normandy, although she was always known as Little Pupper. She lived to be fifteen.
Several weeks after D-Day, Long Bill came back. I can see him now, walking down the path. A once tall, fine young man, now sad and dejected. He had been wounded. He told us that they had 鈥榣ived in their tank for seven weeks鈥�. He was being sent back to the front line again. That was the last we heard of him.
Our Americans found themselves on Omaha Beach, in France. Over the intervening years, I have read and reread all about the Battle of Normandy and how they fought alongside our brave troops and other allies. The cemeteries in France are a harrowing reminder of the sacrifice that thousands of them made.
The black American soldiers followed them into the camps and my parents readily took them in, too. They came to my tenth birthday party, in July 1944, bringing a huge box of fruit candies. We ran races and Corporal Ginlack, an athletic, tall young man, ran against me, letting me win. On behalf of the soldiers, he had composed a poem for my birthday, typed it up and put it in a decorated card that he had made. It is a treasured possession.
Fifty years later, in 1994, an elderly American called at Burton Bradstock Post Office, enquiring for my parents, (long dead by then) and me. No one took his name. I hope it was Long Bill.

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