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This is a complete memoir from Ivor Bail
originally entitled
EVACUATION
SOUTH EAST ENGLAND TO SOUTH WALES 1939 - 1942

Several extracts from this memoir have appeared on the site before

This complete version was typed by Fiona McNeill of the Folkestone Heritage Team.
It is added to the site with Mr Bail's permission.

On the morning of Sunday 3rd of September 1939, I was on the beach at Folkestone in Kent with our evacuee Gordon Cottle, he and his school friends had been evacuated from London a few weeks earlier, to what was considered the safety of the South Coast of England, when the threat of War was fast becoming reality. It was a fine sunny day and we were enjoying our morning out, suddenly the air raid sirens began to sound, unbeknown to us - War had been declared! An unidentified aircraft in the channel had been picked up on the 'Radar Defence System' although we didn't understand the seriousness of the situation our instinct told us to make for home.

There had throughout the year been many preparations made and instructions issued, on procedures in the event of air raids by enemy bombers. Most people expected to see the sky full of big black aircraft heading for London. Nothing happened and it turned out to be a false alarm.

Things did begin to happen in the early Summer of 1940 when on May 28th Belgium capitulated, and the French army began to lose ground. The South coast of England was beginning to look unsafe and the Government decided to send the London evacuees to safer places, also to evacuate all other children from the South of England. That decision was soon justified as the French surrendered and our army was pushed back to the French coast and trapped on the beaches in the area of Dunkirk. The evacuation of our troops by warships and hundreds of small vessels began, this coincided with the evacuation of the school children to other parts of the country, here the railways played a vital role conveying the exhausted troops to regimental bases for re-organisation and children to South Wales, all at the same time and within a few days at the beginning of June 1940.

The evacuation of my school 'Christ Church' took place on Sunday 2nd of June 1940 along with other schools from the town the evacuation was not compulsory but only a few children remained behind. We were asked to assemble in Radnor Park, a recreational area adjacent to the main railway station.

So, it was in company with fellow pupils I turned up complete with gas mask, small bundle of clothes and ration card, with a brown label attached to my jacket bearing my name and address, school and identity number. Nobody knew where our final destination was to be. To me it was somewhat of an adventure. To my mother, I have since realised, it must have been like a dreadful nightmare. She did not accompany me onto the station platform where there was so much congestion but arranged to wave goodbye below a nearby archway over which the train would travel, as it did so I waved farewell to her - a lone figure and anxious 'mum'. It must have been very emotional for her, she had no idea where I was going or even if we would ever meet again. My father was unable to accompany her as he was required under emergency regulations to register for defence work, and had left home early that morning for Romney Marsh where gangs of men were employed erecting wooden poles intended to destroy enemy planes carrying troops should they attempt to land.

So began a long train journey on a hot Summer day all the way to South Wales. On the journey we saw notices in the gardens of houses that backed onto the railway track, messages to the defeated troops saying 'good luck boys, 'welcome home', 'we're not beat yet' and even 'throw out your foreign coins here'.

On many station platforms W.V.S and Salvation Army ladies waited with trestle tables laden with sandwiches cakes, drinks and cigarettes all provided for the refreshment of the bedraggled and bloodstained soldiers.

Late that afternoon our train arrived at Chepstow in Monmouthshire, and we were conducted from the station through the town to a drill hall in the main street. It was very hot and sunny and once inside the grounds of the drill hall, we were really glad to received some rolls and soft drinks while arrangements continued for our transfer by bus to our final and still unknown destination.

Eventually, coaches from the 'Red & White' bus company arrived to take us on the last leg of our journey. Turning out of the main street we were soon on our way passing through St Arvans and driving alongside Chepstow race course, but there were no longer any horses to be seen here, as the race course had been requisitioned for use as an airfield. Later, at the end of the War, it was a prisoner of War camp. The journey continued passing 'Moss Cottage' at the foot of the 'Wynd-Cliff' and heading towards Tintern. None of us knew more than that we were now in South Wales. Sign posts and place names throughout the country had been removed in case of invasion. The first thing we saw on entering Tintern was of course the Abbey appearing to our right nestling close to the River Wye and bathed in sunshine. A few minutes later, our bus drew up outside the village hall and we found ourselves being shepherded inside.

I suppose there was about thirty of us from Class 7 of Christ Church School. The children of other classes went elsewhere to nearby villages. I remember standing in a line next to Kenneth my friend feeling hot, tired and somewhat unsettled. The long journey just undertaken left me slightly bewildered, was it all a dream?

Standing opposite us in the hall was quite a large group of villagers, these people had agreed to take us into their homes and become our foster parents. They had previously signed the necessary forms and stated their preference for boys or girls. Soon a rather awkward process of selection began… After watching waiting and wondering, my friend Kenneth and I found ourselves paired up and being led along by a tall kindly looking gentleman, Mr Ware, the village postman who, at that moment had become our 'Foster Father’, to use the official term. Waiting outside, no doubt very interested to see what we looked like, were two of Mr Ware's daughters Maureen and Barbara.

We all set off through the village, Kenneth and myself clutching our gas masks, Mr Ware with his post office bike and our few belongings strapped on it, Maureen riding her cycle slowly while Barbara walked alongside. Along the way one or two villagers at their front doors watched with good natured curiosity as they noted the wartime addition to their postman’s family. Arriving at 'Prospect Cottage' our new home, Kenneth and I were greeted by our 'Foster Mum', Mrs Ware, who soon made us welcome. Little did I know I was to spend some of the happiest days of my life in my short stay in her home. The cottage (house really) certainly turned out to be a 'Good Prospect'.

So, after a very long day it was time for bed.

I awoke next morning and looked out of the window to a very peaceful scene. The river Wye was drifting silently by, glistening in the sunshine, a slight mist lifting from its water. I had never really seen a river like this before and I was impressed by the tranquillity of it all, in complete contrast to the urgency of the day before when we left Folkestone to the sound of heavy gunfire across the channel. That morning we returned to the village hall where our headmaster handed us all postcards with strict instructions to write home with our new address. We went on to the village school to a classroom set aside for our use, desks were taken and postcards written.

Mr Jelly the local headmaster made arrangements with our headmaster, Mr Hoskins, for our class to use the school facilities. [This] worked very well considering the extra numbers involved. Local children and evacuees soon started to get to know each other finding out how their way of life differed, accents for one thing, the local lads’ greeting I found was 'Ow-be' not 'watch'er' as in Kent.

Gradually we settled in to our new surroundings. I walked every day to school and back with Ken and Barbara (I think Maureen cycled) the distance being well over a mile each way, also to and fro at lunch time (12 to 2 pm) - no school dinners in those days!

In the light summer evenings we played 'Longball ' in the roadway outside 'Prospect Cottage' (no traffic then), a game I'd not heard of before, but it was good fun. In the winter evenings we played cards, usually Whist, by the light of oil lamps (only the pubs had generators for electric lights) and everything stopped on Saturday evenings for the favourite radio show 'Happidrome' with comedian Harry Corris and his two stooges, Enoch and Ramsbottom. Later on in the War I.T.M.A. became the favourite with comedian Tommy Handly (I.T.M.A. Its That Man Again). Sunday evening the ´óÏó´«Ã½ News commenced with the playing of the national anthems of France, Belgium and Denmark the fallen countries at that time, anthems of other nations when overrun were added as the weeks went by. Eventually there were too many anthems to continue the practice as Europe had been engulfed.

One requirement by our school was to attend the local church on Sunday morning and like all the others I found this quite tedious. The sermon was always long, uninteresting and difficult to follow. This fact was borne out by a browse through most hymnbooks. They contained drawings and witticisms written on the blank back pages by anonymous authors, some likeness of the preacher being remarkably accurate. Budding artists in the village maybe? One day an opportunity arose which gave me the chance to opt out of the morning services. A paid volunteer was needed to pump the church organ. I offered myself for the position and got the job for payment of two shillings & sixpence a month.

I pumped the organ for morning services at the church by the river and most Sunday evenings at the church on the hill [at] the other end of the village. Services alternated between the two. The church by the river was easy pumping. I would stand behind the organ in the vestry and operate a handle up and down, thereby filling the bellows. The organist was then able to play. Just above the handle hung a lead weight on a long string. Notches on the wooden partition marked the volume of air in reserve. Should the weight fall below a lower mark, lack of air would distort play and ultimately terminate it.

I must confess I was unable to resist the temptation to experiment with this device. I gave the organist a few tense moments prompting him to frantically rattle the foot pedals signalling an urgent need for air. During the sermon I sat outside the vestry door secretly smoking(!) and listening for a signal call of the pedals.

Regarding the church on the hill: here the organ bellows leaked rapidly, serious constant pumping was required to keep ahead of the leak. No time existed for school boy pranks, intervention from above maybe? [A situation which] left the organist reigning supreme!

Over the coming weeks I got to know my way around the village and ran errands to the shops. 'Williams & Cotton' was the main store for provisions and clothing, whilst 'Wheelers' was the place for confection and stationary. But Aubrey Williams' shop was the one that fascinated me. As a customer, one should be prepared to sacrifice at least an hour of your time, there was nearly always someone in front and their list [was] usually long. In the waiting time, I used to study the stock on view. To me it was like Aladdin’s Cave. Whatever article you could think of (except a radio battery,) Aubrey had it for purchase, the drastic wartime shortages had not yet affected his business (except batteries.) Much of the ceiling and walls was obscured by the density of the stock. Pots, pans, primus stove parts, glass oil lamp, funnels, boots, laces, clothes, tools and much more, were either stacked in corners on shelves behind the counter or, more impressive, hanging from the ceiling and walls. The smell of coffee, cheese, bacon and paraffin wafted in the air. Aubrey Williams, among this jungle of goods, knew exactly the whereabouts of everything!

Next to 'Prospect Cottage' was a public house 'The Masons Arms', [the] Landlord [was a] Mr Carpenter. The other side, Mr Higgins the local cobbler lived. Next to his house lived Miss Horton, who, from her front room sold lemonade and sweets, ten toffees for one (old) penny. Two of my school friends were billeted with her. I was a regular customer for toffees but sweet rationing soon lessened my visits.

The garage opposite on the river bank was run by Jonnie Watkins, he provided a taxi service. He also provided electricity for the 'Masons Arms' opposite by way of an ancient looking generator. [It was] slow and difficult to start (6 pm every evening) but fairly efficient once running. His constant companion was a three legged black and white Collie dog.

Johnnie Watkins' neighbour was Stan Jones the butcher, a jovial hard working man assisted by his daughter. Sometimes he took me in his van to help him on the delivery rounds out at St Briaves and Brockweir across the river.

Brockweir was in the county of Gloucestershire an English County, the river marking the boundary. Unlike on the Welsh side, public houses were allowed by law to open on Sundays. This was very useful for those on the Welsh side with a seven-day thirst.

Eventually, the Summer holidays arrived and us new inhabitants ventured farther afield. Walks to the 'Devils Pulpit' in the wooded hills, the 'Wynd-Cliff', Offas Dyke and the forest areas were all well trodden. Plus initials [were] carved on the 'Rock Pulpit' and 'Wynd-Cliff Stone' to mark the visits. The hot Summer sent us on regular outings to fields by the church to enjoy swimming in the river. We went picking Winberries for making tarts and acorns for the forestry commission to plant, at a nursery called the 'Cott'. In the village near the hall was a scrap dump established for the collection of anything metal, especially aluminium, needed to melt down for aircraft parts 'Save Scrap for Victory', became the slogan to encourage the War effort.

Two well known characters in the village at that time were Mr. Floydd and 'Old Bill'. Mr Floydd was an artist, often found along the river banks with his easel and oil paints, expertly painting the scenery. Always good for a chat, he was a very interesting gentleman. [He was] a mine of information and [a] successful artist with paintings of merit accepted and hung in the Royal Academy of Art.
Completely different, the other well known character was 'Old Bill' the tramp, who popped up around the village, mostly outside the Abbey, to entertain (fast dwindling) visitors with musical interludes on harmonica and bone clappers. Bill lived in a cave not far from the Abbey on the road to Chepstow. Various stories existed explaining the reason he had adopted this lifestyle, who knows how true they were?

Back in Folkestone, my parents were experiencing the hazards of 'The Battle of Britain'. Instructions to civilians had been issued ordering their evacuation at short notice, leaving the town in the hands of the military. My parents kept a case packed with essentials behind the front door ready for such an event. Invasion seemed imminent.

In Tintern, the 'Local Defence Volunteers' were formed after a nationwide appeal. They paraded in the village hall (what an asset this building was.) For drill instruction only a few rifles were available, so wooden substitutes were used for drill purposes until eventually they became fully equipped and operational. Saturday afternoons they marched through the village (with rifles smartly at the slope) to a field by the railway station, to engage in shooting practice, with targets against the railway bank.

Mr Ware was a proud member of this unit, and by all accounts a crack shot. They may well have been a formidable force against parachutists, if they had dropped in. They never did, so the church bells which were to be rung as a warning never were.

Rumours of parachute S.P.V.'s secretly landing were quite common and folk were suspicious and on the alert for strangers if seen. There were stories that S.P.V.'s came disguised as monks, more of a joke than factual, but still possible.

People in those days took heed of all the official warnings. [This] reminds me of the time Kenneth and a friend, Bill, decided to go for a chalk chase. Bill set off towards Whitelye leaving a trail of arrows chalked on the road, clues for Ken to follow in order to catch up. Unfortunately for them, their activities were observed and misunderstood, the locals did their duty and contacted the police thinking they might be spies. The chalk chasers soon found themselves in custody, trying hard to prove their identity cards were genuine.

The Battle of Britain reached its conclusion in September that year with victory by the R.A.F. and the danger of invasion receded. But the German Luftwaffe changed tactics, switching to the bombing of our large cities. On several nights the glow of incendiary bomb fires and sound of distant explosions were seen and heard on the sky line, search lights sweeping the darkness sometimes successfully pin pointing an aircraft with the beams. The horror of War was just a few miles away, we were witnessing the air raids on Cardiff and Bristol.

Only one bomb fell on Tintern as far as I know, this from a stray aircraft, jettisoning it in order to make for home, the River Severn being a good navigational guide. Unfortunately, it fell on a bungalow near Whitelye and practically demolished it, the occupant, Miss Sumner I believe, escaped with minor injuries.

In December 1941 I reached school leaving age, (14 years then) and so returned to Folkestone to start work, sadly wishing my foster family and school friends farewell.

I had escaped the dangers endured by my parents. Invasion, thankfully, never came, but the War was not over and I was to see a great deal more of it - but that's another story.

Sixty years on, I dedicate my short story to the foster parents of Tintern and especially the lovely Ware family.

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