大象传媒

The clouds of WW2 were gathering. My mother, being a teacher and liable to be evacuated with her school, arranged for me to be attached to St.Ignatius College at stamford Hill which my two elder brothers attended. On the day before war was declared, we gathered blue gaberdine macs, oblong cardboard gas mark containers duly labelled, with attache cases decorated in labels coded TO 23 which was the school number (in case of any missing, homesick or strays). The whole school, duly assembled, crocodiled to Manor House Tube where an empty train took us on one stop to finsbury Park LNER. Re-assembling on the appropriate platform, having been exhorted to "try before boarding the train", there was a buzz of excitement. was it to be canada? Australia or some distant Scottish or welsh retrea? After we entrained Skinners school for girls - strictly segregated got on the same train and we set off. We stopped at New barnet for a head count and a second watering for those reluctant to perform at finsbury park, and after some half hour delay started off once more. We stopped again at Welwyn Garden City dominated by two Shredded Wheat towers, and to our utter disappointment at the short journey disembarked.
The next trek was to a school in Peartree Lane where another head check and brown paper carrier bag with some non-perishable food - condensed milk was the star attraction! - was distributed. Thereafter we were taken round to billets and my brother and I shared some nearby council accomodation.
The billet was rented by an unemployed family with two young children ( unemployment was rife prior to the war) and the breadwinner earned spasmodic money by filling sandbags and erecting the Anderson half sunken corrugated air raid shelters ready for the blitzkreig. My mother had a weekend leave from her evacuated school at Bury st.Edmunds and naturally hurried to see how her boys were progressing. Mike, the eldest had a good billet whilst my brother and I slept on bed boards supported by wooden orange boxes. We were both infested and a hasty transfer to another address, carefully vetted by our mum, was arranged for one whilst I was brought home for eventual onward journey to a rich aunt living in a spacious house in Littleham Cross near Exmouth. Prior to that I was of course re-kitted, de-loused and had my hair and scalp thoroughly scrubbed in a wash of quassa chips which would permanently deter even the hardiest fleas for life. It was painful yet effective. Escorted by my father, who worked at the Central Telegraph Office in St.Martin-le-Grand and had some leave owing (reserved occupation) I sadly arrived to behold luxury par excellence. I soon settled in and at the end of the sloping garden in the back of the detached house, lay Bradham Lane, where every Sunday morning the East Devon regiment church paraded to the local church with band playing. I can still recall the march as if it was yesterday. However, one weekday in the late afternoon, I rushed to the end of the garden as I could hear the beat of a single kettle drum. It wasn't a Sunday and my curiosity needed to know. Over the high back gate, I saw a ship's company of sailors (they did not disclose the ship on their hat bands only H.M.S. for security) dressed in naval uniform with high black gaiters. They marched in silence and when i rushed back to the house to break the news; no one was at home. Naturally, when there was someone present I told the episode but no one would believe me as also to others in the village.
The village church at Littleham had a tomb for the Nelson family and I suppose some thought my young fertile mind had some association as there was no naval establishment near at hand apart from the Marine Commando training at Plympton. Anyhow I was firmly fixed in my mind that the silent march had occured. My aunt, among her local circle of friends had a Mrs. Makeig-Jones whose husband commanded the aircraft carrier Courageous and some two or so weeks later, she learned her husband was lost at sea. Some time thereafter the sinking of the aircraft carrier was released and after the secrecy of war permitted it was learned that 518 crew out of the complement of 1260 were lost off South Western approaches having been torpedoed by submarine U29 at approximately 19.50 hours on 17th September 1939. Some R.A.F. personnel were attached to the crew and were among the drowned. This incident could not of course be confirmed until very much later, but recalling that the Bradham lane Sunday parades by the army were a regular feature and the oddness of a silent naval march apart from kettle drum during the week has, to this day, remained a puzzle or perhaps a premonition. In those days militarism and heroism were bread and butter to small boys and who knows, it could be imagination. However I am certain the event happened well before the breaking of the news to the captain's widow!!

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