大象传媒

William Herbert Sanderson
PLYX106441

Born 25th July 1924

Place of Birth: Scarborough, North Riding of Yorkshire
Father: William Brown Sanderson
Mother: Elizabeth Hutchinson Major
Brother: Lawrence Ian 鈥楲ol鈥�
Sister: Jean Elizabeth

Bill was fourteen in 1938 at the time of the Munich crisis.

When I first left school, I worked as an errand boy for the chemist down the street. I remember going with my mates to the school to assemble the gas masks. They asked for volunteers to put them together. There was the case and the rubber mask part and you put an elastic band round to seal it. And of course, my dad joined the TA (Territorial Army) in 1938. I remember him going to the TA hall in St John鈥檚 Road and all he had on was brown overalls, not a proper uniform.

I remember seeing Chamberlain with his bit of paper on the newsreel at the cinema but I didn鈥檛 really take all that much notice. At that time I was working at the Post Office as a temporary telegraph boy. Suddenly, we were very busy because we had all these telegrams calling everyone up, cancelling holidays and things like that. On the Sunday, when they said we were at war, of course, dad had to go. They went down to the barracks and there were coaches outside and all the troops got on them. But dad was in the carrier section. So they went in Bren gun carriers. They went to Cottingham to a bowling green. I鈥檓 not sure how long afterwards, maybe a week or a fortnight, not long anyway. I decided to go and see them. I had this old bike; the kind with the leather saddle. It had come loose, so I put a strap around it to stop it flapping. I shoved off to Cottingham. I went the hard way, over Staxton. I had no idea where it was; I knew it was somewhere near Hull (actually about thirty miles away) and I did eventually get there and they let me through - I knew some of the blokes on the gate - and surprised me dad. I slept there, camped down with them and had a ride in a carrier. Probably just the Sunday and then came back on the Monday.

Dad went to France. Just before Dunkirk, he was on leave with his friend, Bill Woodcock, who was in the Tank Corps originally with him before the war. They both had come to Scarborough, from Ireland in 1923, to Burniston Barracks. That鈥檚 when my dad met my mum and Bill met his wife at the same time. So, they were on leave and they went back [to France] but they didn鈥檛 get back to their unit, in the Green Howards and they were separated. Bill Woodcock was captured and was a POW for the rest of the war. But my dad got back. I don鈥檛 know exactly how he got back, it wasn鈥檛 from Dunkirk, I think it was somewhere else, further down. He came back and they sent him home for so long. But they had no idea who was who. I remember he said he was coming and I went and met him. We lived Hillside Gardens then, opposite Plaxtons on Seamer Road. I went in a taxi to meet him. I had two bottles of beer for him but dropped one when I got out of the taxi; which was a bit of a disaster. He brought back a seven pound tin of corned beef. I thought, that鈥檚 me dad, he always comes back with something. And then, about a fortnight later, we had a telegram saying he was missing, but we realised he wasn鈥檛, of course. After that, he never went back onto active service with the Howards. Of course, he was forty then, which was old. He went with a non-combatant unit in the Pioneers, first with a mobile bath unit and then with a smoke unit. He ended up in Kinlockleven. There鈥檚 a big dam up there, a reservoir and he used to set the smoke off every night when there were raids.

So that was the beginning of the war and of course, jobs were easy to get then, for someone young, who hadn鈥檛 been called up. I had various jobs then. I went to Yew Court, a big house in Scalby. I used to clean the bloke鈥檚 guns, when he went shooting and his car and do the boiler and the water softener and a bit of the garden and all sorts. I was there about four months, something like that.

Then I was at Rowntrees, the big department store, in the counting house. I was salaried. I was in where all the accounting was done, a sort of dogsbody really, I used to answer the phone. One of the departments would ring up and say 鈥淢rs So-and-So, is she all right for credit?鈥� and I used to have to check. I didn鈥檛 like going in the shop because I was very shy. All the assistants were a bit better than me 鈥� if you know what I mean 鈥� grammar school girls. I had to go down and change the till rolls. I used to hate to go down into the departments where they had floorwalkers and it was all a bit posh. I used to blush red crimson. There was a staff canteen and we had a break morning and afternoon. But, all the time I worked there, I never went in. Instead, I used to walk up and down the main street. I was too shy.

I went from there to the cinema, fourth operator! That was good because you got free passes to the opposite side of the road, to the Londsborough because they were both the same firm. We used to have the news and after you鈥檇 shown the news, the operator from the Londsborough would come over and take it and they鈥檇 show it. Then I鈥檇 have to go and bring it back for our next showing. I had to rewind the film, thread it up in the machines, do the lights and curtains on the stage. There were two of us on at a time. I was on with the first operator, the chief operator. There were two machines. As soon as you鈥檇 finished one reel, you鈥檇 switch over and I would take the reel out, rewind it and thread the next one up ready and I鈥檇 adjust the carbons if necessary 鈥� you had to keep them about half an inch apart. Sometimes they used to make their own adverts on glass slides that had been covered in lamp black with the words scratched through. We showed them on a magic lantern. If the film changed over on a Wednesday or a Saturday, you had to take it off the spools and put it in the cans ready to send back.

The first time I tried to join up was when I was fifteen in 1939. I tried to join the Navy. I went to Hull and had an exam and a medical. They said: 鈥淣o, I鈥檓 sorry. You鈥檙e one short.鈥� It was laid down that you had to have so many teeth if you wanted to join as a boy. In the meantime, I was in the Auxiliary Fire Service, as a messenger. We did stints at the old tram sheds on Scalby Road. We stopped there all night. There were permanent people during the day and extra ones, part timers in the night. I thought it was wonderful to sleep there, especially when we got hammocks. We had some fun with them, falling out and all sorts. We had taxis with trailer pumps and a couple of converted United buses with water tanks. I went to two or three haystack fires and things like that. We messenger boys weren鈥檛 supposed to but, if we could jump on with the crew, we did. There was only one full-time messenger, Eric Mitten. He was in the same class as me at school but he got on full-time eventually, as a messenger. At one time, they said we were all going to have motor bikes. So they got these motor bikes and we had a run round the country with them and that was it. So we鈥檇 had the training but we never got any motor bikes. I鈥檇 never been on one before. They were the old type with the gear levers on the tank.

We had occasional air raids in Scarborough and bombs fell, including a large landmine by the harbour. The worst raid we had was in 1941 with a fair amount of damage. At that time my mum and my sister Jean were away in Scotland with my dad, in Kinlochleven. And Lol and I were stopping with Nanny at 35 Commercial Street. At the time of the raid I was reporting for duty at the old tram sheds with the AFS, as usual. The raid was getting worse and we heard a bomb explode very close and shortly afterwards a very flustered firewatcher came in the control room and told us that a bomb had dropped in Commercial Street. It was only two streets away and I was on my bike immediately with my heart in my mouth. I went in the house; there were two frightened faces, Nanny and Lol sitting under the stairs. After seeing they were all right and reassuring them, I made my way back to the site of the explosion, about a hundred yards away. Rescue teams were already there, trying to reach the people, people I knew, who were trapped, buried under the rubble. That was the first time I realised the war wasn鈥檛 just a skylark or a bit of excitement.

I changed my job again and I went to the butchers. And I think that was the longest time I was in a job until I joined up.

When I was seventeen and a quarter - that was the earliest you could volunteer for the forces as a man - I applied for the RAF and went to Cardingham for a couple of days. I had an interview and he said: 鈥淩ight, we can use you for aircrew and we鈥檒l let you know when we want you.鈥� I thought, that seems fair enough, but it seemed a long time and they didn鈥檛 send for me, so I went again for the Navy. I ended up in the Marines. Although the Marine band was in Scarborough - they had been evacuated there 鈥� I hadn鈥檛 taken much notice of them. But this recruiting sergeant said: 鈥淵ou鈥檙e just the lad we want for the Marines.鈥� And I said 鈥淔air enough.鈥� My mum didn鈥檛 really discourage me. I don鈥檛 know what she felt about it to be honest. Mush, my cousin, he鈥檇 gone and joined up and his dad had gone straight down and told them that he couldn鈥檛, because he was under eighteen. His dad, uncle Mush, had been in the First World War and knew what it was like. Mush had to wait until he was called up. You had to register when you were eighteen.

I had volunteered and they called me in March 1942. I went to Hull first. I had to report to the combined recruitment place in Hull. I met George Monkman , he came from Beverley. There was just the two of us and they told us: 鈥淵ou鈥檝e got to report to Stonehouse Barracks, Plymouth.鈥� I had a vague idea where Plymouth was, down south somewhere. So they put us on a train, down to London. It was the first time I鈥檇 ever been to London, first time I鈥檇 ever been on a tube. You had to get from Kings Cross to Paddington. I kept saying to George: 鈥淎s soon as it stops get off 鈥榗os the doors close quick!鈥� Not realising it had stopped in the tunnel, we opened the doors - you could do that in those days 鈥� and were about to get off, when we realised what had happened. Eventually, we got down to Plymouth. It took a long time 鈥� more than a day. We got the barracks on a rainy wet day. I remember the grey, grim looking stone buildings. Room sixty-four, that was it. They gave us palliasses and said: 鈥淐ome with us.鈥� And they showed us where the straw was. They said: 鈥淧ut plenty in because it鈥檒l be flat within a week!鈥� There was one other chap in the room when we went in. Pete Cory. He was local, from Plymouth. The next bed was George and I was in the one after that. Pete was number 106439, George was 106440 and I was 106441. During that afternoon, different chaps kept appearing until the room was full. We were all still in 鈥榗ivvies鈥� but they鈥檇 given us a knife, fork, spoon and cup and the palliasse. We had metal beds that pulled out and you put the palliasse on.

The next day was the usual thing: getting all the gear and signing this and signing that. There was an old soldier in the marking place. You were given a little wooden block with your number on and he showed you where you had to stamp your number on each piece of kit. And these old sweats were saying: 鈥淵ou鈥檒l want one of these when you鈥檙e cleaning your buttons.鈥� I didn鈥檛 know what it was at first. It was only a piece of tin, cut out that you slid around the button to stop the polish going on the cloth of the uniform. But, you鈥檙e green then and you believe everything you鈥檙e told. We got blacking, toothbrush, toothpaste and your 鈥榟ousewife鈥� with all the stuff in it. When the lance corporal came into the room you had to stand to attention. If fact, you had to stand to attention to a trained soldier. They were very strict like that. We were in blocks and there was a dining room in each block, with about six or eight to a table. There was a loaf of bread on each table and we had to share it out. We came from all walks of life and different parts of the country. There were three lads from Yorkshire; me, George and a bloke from Sheffield. There were 鈥榮cousers鈥�, Scottish blokes, all sorts.

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