大象传媒

A Boyhood In Wartime Edinburgh

My memories of events in the secon d world war are not only clear, but to those of us who spent our formative years during that time the importance of the war was a fact we recognised. This recognition is not a matter of being wise after the event: wartime life was such that one was influenced not only by one's personal experiences, but also by external influences, for example: the press, the wireless and the cinema.

In September 1939, I - a mere child - with other members of our extended family was evacuated to Tarbert, Argyll. I have only three, but perfectly clear, fragments of memory of that event. The first is of being aboard a Clyde steamer, which, I think, sailed from Wemyss Bay or Fairlie: the second is of one of the months' old children being wheeled in a pram up a steep hill: the third is of us returning home after only a few weeks away (Hitler having decided to postpone our obliteration awhile) in a train during the blackout.

Then as now, school was a dominating influence in our lives. During the war year, materials were in short supply. (It is no exaggeration to say that no classroom could boast a decent box of crayons.) We learned to write and count by use of a slate and slate-pencil, whilst teacher, almost certainly a confirmed spinster, dedicated to dinning the three Rs into her silent charges, (talking in class was almost a capital offence) stood by the blackboard, which had an abacus at its foot, tapping her foot in silent frustration as she awaited some bright spark to produce a correct answer.

The current controversy over the mmr vaccine reminds me of the smallpox vaccination all children had to undergo around 1942. No hoo-ha then. A mighty scratch on one's arm was followed by satisfaction from those who had not been subjected to the ordeal when the vaccination "took" i.e. a pronounced scab appeared over the wound. All of us who were vaccinated bear the mark on our arms to this day. (Incidentally, shame on the Scottish media for referring to vaccination as a "jab." The proper Scots word is "jag." To jag means to prick with a sharp point, hence the nickname of Partick Thistle FC: the Jags. A jab is a short punch.)

Following D Day, we were asked to contribute towards a relief fund for the people of Caen in Normandy. Caen had been bombed very heavily by the Allies and much of it lay in ruins, with many of its inhabitants dead. Our resources were limited by shortages and rationing, but I recall my mother managing to give me two tins of cocoa.(Fry's in flat tins?) and something else which escapes me. The school's collection was deposited in the drill- hall for all to see before the heap was gathered and sent to our unfortunate and unknown friends in Caen. More than 50 years later I visited Caen and its Memorial Museum. Memories were rekindled and I thought of myself and my school friends clutching our precious little parcels which, I hope, got through to the refugees in far-off Normandy.

External influences on our lives were: the newspapers, the wireless and the cinema. I have been an avid reader from an early age and I read the press daily. I recall reading the main story in the "Edinburgh Evening News" in March 1944. (In those days all the news was inside the paper). The report said that 96 of our bombers had been lost in a raid on Nuremberg, the single heaviest loss during the war. (In fact, the final figure was over 100). Three months later the news was of D Day and its aftermath.

The wireless was a source of both news and entertainment. The comedy programmes did wonders for morale and favourite catch phrases passed into every day speech. "Can I do you now,sir?" and "I don't mind if I do" were born of ITMA, a show of superbly- realised characters, with marvellous scripts by Ted Kavanagh and hosted by Liverpudlian Tommy Handley, an absolute master of quick-fire patter and what nowadays are termed one-liners.

The cinema was immensely popular, not least amongst us youngsters. Newsreels seemed always to contain shots of goose-stepping Nazis whose appearance was instantly greeted by boos and catcalls from the young ruffians crammed into the front stalls. ( At this remove when I think of cinema usherettes, Shakespeare's words in "Measure For Measure" spring into my mind: "....dressed in a little brief authority......") Films from America depicted a strange country where page boys seemed to spend their time delivering bouquets from an admirer to a coquettish maiden reluctant to leave her bedroom and courts resounded to judges' cries of "Objection over-ruled" as some hapless District Attorney found himself pitted against a debonair defending counsel. Strangest of all was a suitor asking the girl of his dreams: "May I take you to dinner tonight." Dinner at night?! Dinner was at 1230pm. What kind of country got meals backside foremost? This question bothered me for some years.

A delightful baptism for me was when my father took me to Easter Road to see Hibs for the first time. As I write, the papers are carrying obituaries to the peerless Gordon Smith. Gordon was only 18 or so when I first saw him and even then he had star quality written all over him. One of my proudest boasts was my getting Gordon's signature in my autograph book. Not only did the diffident Gordon sign for me, he also exchanged a few words. Bliss! Gay Gordon, we'll never see his like again.

At a very young age I joined the Junior Sunday School at Abbey Church in Abbeyhill. (The church was demolished many years ago.) One Sunday we were all shepherded into church for evening service since a very important person was going to read the address. This VIP was none other than Flying Officer Cruickshank VC. Fg. Off. Cruickshank, a native of Edinburgh, had, despite suffering the most severe wounds, sunk a U Boat up in the Arctic Circle. His investiture was held in Holyrood Palace. The memory of his walking up the aisle in the church has remained perfectly clear in my mind. The action took place in July, 1944; therefore his presence in Abbey Church would have been later that year or in early 1945. The story of the action was dramatised by the 大象传媒 in 1995, the 50th anniversary of the end of the war.

VE Day was a wonderful event. Home-made bunting was strung across the street and tables and chairs appeared as if by some invisible and incontrovertible command from on high. A bonfire was lit and everyone was everyone's friend. In the evening, my parents took me uptown. The city centre was absolutely heaving. We were at the east end of Princes St., by Wellington's statue, where merry-making was the order of the day. Two girls, I suppose they were about 18 or 19, accompanied by two sailors, draped streamers around my head and neck, laughing and singing as they did so.

Soon after VE Day, lads who had been prisoners of war returned home. Banners reading: "Welcome home, laddie" decorated the street while their anxious families fretted at their windows, not sure of exactly when their boys would arrive. From what I recall, the "laddies" slipped quietly into their homes, keen to avoid any fuss.

When the war was over, our headmaster, a disciplinarian but by no means a martinet, decided that we should be allowed to listen to the Nuremberg War Trials. I wish I could say that it was an enlightening experience; however, all I could hear was the crackle of static over the ether and a distant voice mouthing I don't know what. We received a signed card from the King, which I still have, and everyone looked forward to better times. In fact, life became even tighter in some respects, a situation not helped by the grim winter of 1946/47, although I have to say I thought the continual snowfalls marvellous. I sledged for weeks in Holyrood Park. One of the most beautiful experiences of my life was being allowed out at night with the "big boys" to sledge by moonlight on the slopes below Arthur's Seat.

The foregoing are some of my memories of the Second World War, an event which has certainly coloured my views in adult life.

Jim Peter

12th August 2004

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