- Contributed by听
- ateamwar
- People in story:听
- Harry Shalliker. Featuring; Henry Shalliker (Father)
- Location of story:听
- Bootle, Liverpool, Mersyside
- Background to story:听
- Civilian
- Article ID:听
- A4080278
- Contributed on:听
- 17 May 2005
When the Second World War broke out I was six years old, amd my father Henry was 32. Due to his age, he was not 'called up' for the armed forces. But he thought he would 'do his bit' to help at home. He joined the Police Force in 1940 as a Special Policeman, whilst continuing with his full time job as a Retail Grocery Manager for local bakers, T. Scott & Sons, during the day. When the night time came he donned his uniform to patrol the streets of Bootle, and many times helped to rescue people out of bombed property.
After one particularly bad night of bombing, he didn't return home as usual. My mother was very worried, and we had to visit Bootle town hall, where they pinned lists of casualties and deaths. My father's name was stated as missing, presumed killed. I cannot remember the sadness, but I can imagine the trauma my mother suffered.
A few days later, we received the wonderful news that he was in hospital. He had been badly injured, and his left arm had a 'severe compound fracture'. The doctors wanted to remove his arm, but he pleaded with them to try and save it, and they did. His back was also saved from injury, because in those days my father was a heavy smoker, and in the back of his uniform he had a flat metal container of 100 Capstan cigarettes, which shielded a slab of masonary from killing him!
Before the injury, and after evening duties were over, his friends (Special Police) used to come to our house at 13 Benedict Street, Bootle. They would unwind, singing and drinking. They would use all sorts of implements to make a band noise. I was sent to bed, but used to listen to them being happy. The main 'boozing' song was 'Old McDonald's Farm', and they were happy days, even though the war had just started.
Subsequently, he kept going to Bootle Police Station, although he could not do any duties. In 1944, the Club Steward has a heart attack, and my father volunteered to take over the job temporarily. He ended up lasting there until 1976........number 13 has always been our lucky number!
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