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N. D. Parfitt

I am very vague as to the exact timing of the following story. It took place in the Somerset village of Stoke St. Michael during the 1939-45 war and for reasons that will become clear as the account unfolds, was most likely in the latter half or perhaps even slightly after the end of the war.
In those days, the word SALE really meant something, ie. the annual clearing of stocks at reduced prices instead of, in today’s scheme of things, where the word SALE can be a permanent feature used as an advertising gimmick. My mother of these occasions would cycle to Oakhill and from there catch a bus to Bath or Bristol for her visit to the sales, from where her prize most often was a winter coat - the trade name of Eastex comes to mind. But she had someone to arrange ‘loco parentis’ for, namely myself. I can only assume that on this particular occasion it was a school holiday, because my father took me to his work where I spent the day at Matthews basalt stone quarry.
Coming out of Stoke St. Michael on the road to Waterlip and Branmore, the first and largest quarry was Wainwrights on the left hand side of the road, and a short distance on up the hill and around the corner was the entrance to ‘Dad’s’ quarry on the right hand side.
Individual recollections of that day include being down on the quarry floor and watching the iron tubs being loaded with stone, pushed along the iron rails to the bottom of the incline, seeing them being attached to the winch and then being pulled up where they were then emptied into the crusher. Whilst this was continuing, higher up the quarry face, someone else would be boring the next hole to take the charge to blast another section down to the quarry floor. For safety reasons, traffic on the road would be warned at these times, and the workers from the quarry floor would take refuge in the corrugated iron hut almost on the roadside. I can still remember hearing the smaller stones peppering the roof after the charge was detonated. Although the phrase ‘work experience’ does not seem as prevalent now as it was 10 or 15 years ago, my recollections, possibly as a 9-year-old, would not have come anywhere within that remit.
But so far I have made no direct reference to the war or to my alternative title. This happened at coffee break time, because as well as the usual workforce, there was also a number of Italian prisoners-of-war of war helping. They had their own hut where they made and drank their coffee. They asked my father if I could join them and so I did, most likely to remind them of younger children belonging to them back in Italy. We all drank coffee from bowls about 6 or 7 inches in diameter, which made an impact on me, but I don’t recollect the taste. One of the prisoners gave me some of his War department currency as a memento. It was dated September 18th 1942, and he wrote his POW personal details on it — ‘POW GENGA, PIETRO — TIVOLI (ROMA) ITALIA 47137’.
Some time later with other members of my family we were on our way to Wells and having just passed through Masbury, on the left hand side of the road we passed a prisoner of war camp where I assumed my ‘coffee mates’ were stationed.

A Junkers 88 — some memories

During the war, a Junkers 88 crashed near our village. I was told that my parents, Clifford and Freda Parfitt of 8, Sweetleaze, Stoke St. Michael, along with some of their neighbours, watched the blazing plane pass over their houses until it crashed just 2 or 3 fields away. (This was in the time of smaller traditional fields as opposed to the more recent practice of grubbing out hedges and field enlargements for more mechanisation and greater efficiency in farming). Soon after, I was awakened and taken into my sister’s bedroom to see the resulting fire from her window, which looked towards Holcolme. Because she was only about 3 years old at the time, she was left sleeping, but at just over 8, I was old enough to understand all the implications.
The next morning, my mother and I walked to the start of our row of semi-detached houses and then turned right into Frog Lane in the direction of Holcolme. Having reached the field where the plane had crashed, I have hazy recollections that we were not allowed too close to the crash site but whether we were barred by the police or armed forces, I am not sure.
At that stage we had not seen any sign of scattered wreckage underfoot so like the ‘three wise men’ we went homewards a different way, through the fields instead of the roadway. Soon we found 2 mementos, an iron ring of about 4 inches diameter with an unusual internal bevel, and a block of possibly aluminium with 4 outlets or inlets. I can remember that there was some yellow paint on one or both of the top openings and also some letters and/or figures there.
Because of the weight and strength of the iron ring, my brother-in-law who lives on the Isle of Wight and works in the field of helicopters, thought that it might have been part of the plane’s armaments. The bevel may have served to hold or butt 2 other pieces together. He could not find any markings but as I explained to him, this iron ring had given me and my friends many hours of play as we rolled it to each other up and down the road alongside Sweetleaze. Such treatment would certainly have erased any marks on the outside of the ring. These were very much the days of homemade toys and games; one other was a version of hide and seek called ‘tin can tommy’.
The dimensions of the ring are as follows:
External diameter 4 1/8 inches or 10.5 cm.
Internal diameter 3 7/8 inches or 9.8 cm.
Internal diameter from bevel point to bevel point 3 6/8 inches or 9.4 cm.
Width 5/8 inches or 1.5 cm.
For about 40 years it has lived in my toolbox. Needless to say, I am a hoarder.
The present whereabouts of the block of aluminium is not known. My eldest daughter remembered taking it to school in about 1971, presumably as part of a school project.

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