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Article 2

Just before the war was declared, our village was to have its second and last mini air show. At the corner of Chaldon Common Road a mock target heap of bonfire wood stood ready for two expected fighters from Kenley to attack.
The pretence business included Air Raid Precaution (A. R. P.) teams, the Red Cross, firemen in helmets and gas detector specialists, etc. We local boys of course were mere bystanders waiting for the aeroplanes to show up and begin their speedy antics. But then it didn’t happen that way. Instead of the expected two showing ‘dash’ and Biggles ‘flair’ in a flurry of rushing sound and smelly oil fried air, a single tired Hawker Audax cruised half an hour late from the direction of Coulsdon, then as if it couldn’t care less about we country yokels gearing ourselves up to fight a war that probably wouldn’t happen, it dipped its pointed snout by minimal degrees for a flypast that left it sluggishly heading towards Bletchingley and perhaps a ‘tipple’ at Nutfield or pilots’ booze at Biggin Hill.

No to be defeated or deflated, a match was then applied for the evenings fun to begin. While flames then leapt and giant wooden hand held rattles (gas warning device) murdered the air and any uncovered ears, cyclist ‘runners’ sped off in three directions to spread the attack word and drum-up some more assistance. It was thoroughly good fun too for those employed, for anti mustard-gas water was chucked from buckets onto the road for brooms to scrub at, bodies laid out for nurse attention, fire pump hosing, whistles blowing, and firewood crackling. Plainly some were going to enjoy a war, come what may.
Even my brother, Bob, at thirteen years old was steering his intentions of joining the Navy when chance came his way. He was keen on the fetching blue, was adept at self taught morse code and flag semaphore signalling, and determined to see the World on ships.

Rule Britannia

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