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I live in a village where there is a flourishing art club. This club meets each Monday morning and samples of members’ artistic output are displayed in the local hostelry. These samples confirm that there is a wealth of talent in this relatively small village but I readily confess that whatever talents I inherited in my genes artistic ability is certainly not one. Yet in my teens I passed an examination in Art.

In the summer of 1940 I was a pupil at Weymouth Grammar School and found myself sitting at one of a row of desks in the school’s main hall tackling examination papers as part of a London General Schools Certificate. It was a warm sunny day and it was easy to be distracted at times from writing responses to the questions in diverse subjects such as algebra, geometry, French, history. There were, however, frequent distractions of a more demanding nature as sirens sounded followed closely by the sound of aircraft engines — engines that by regular exposure to them we could recognise as German.

When the alarm was sounded most pupils left their classrooms and filed into the trenches that had become a feature of the school playing fields — all that is except the examinees. The Headmaster had decided that an air raid alarm per se did not justify interrupting the examinations. As a concession to the Teutonic presence he had arranged that two pupils who were not taking the ‘exam of the day’ should be stationed on the school roof armed with whistles, and with instructions to blow a red alert if they observed hostile bombers coming too close. At this sound examinees were told to crouch under their desks. It came to pass that as I struggled to produce my version of a still life arrangement, a version with which Picasso might have identified, repeated whistle blasts were heard and the blowers came panting down the stairs. Art was readily, perhaps over-readily, abandoned in favour of the doubtful haven of the desks. There were some explosions as bombs landed on a bus station nearby but by this stage of the war we were all a bit blasé about bombs. Any concerns that I might have felt were well dispersed when the master in charge of invigilating the examination announced that he would send a covering letter to the exam boards in which he would explain the likely adverse effect of these circumstances on our still life rendering.

Later the board confirmed that our ‘bravery’ — artists in the front line? — was to be recognised and that all entrants were to receive a pass. I must confess that this was the beginning and the end of any recognition of my artistic abilities. This was of course but one example of school life in World War 2. With the fall of France Weymouth was a receiving port for evacuated ‘poilus’ who were billeted in our classrooms and so occasioned the school’s closure. After a short break arrangements were made for those pupils who were approaching exams to be taught in various temporary annexes. A well remembered occasion was, when taking a Latin lesson in the basement of a church, our master designated the noise of the Stuka planes bombing the nearby harbour as a ‘horrificu lapsu’. Although regular subjects did still feature in the school day afternoons were often devoted to war-like activities in the Army Cadet Corps or the Air Training Corps. Senior pupils were on a rota for overnight fire watching at the school. We slept on camp beds and there was competition to be a duty that coincided with the Domestic Science mistress being the staff member for she provided food. As adolescent boys we were flattered by here treating us as adults. When this mistress ceased to appear on the fir-watching rota it was rumoured that the deputy head teacher had called her to account for being too friendly with us!

Earlier I referred to the mass exodus of pupils and staff to trenches at the sounding of an air raid alarm. As a senior pupil I had helped to dig these trenches at the edges of the school playing field. They were roofed with corrugated iron, and in consequence the inner reaches were damp and dark. There was keen competition to hold on to a position near an entrance where the air was fresher and there were glimpses of daylight. On September 30th 1940, "air raid alarm 11.a.m. — noon. Air raid alarm 4.20pm. Watched fights from door of shelter. Saw German bombers * very low directly above — Mess 109** fighting Spitfire planes crashing and bombs". (*Heinkel 111s) (**Messerschmidt) In retrospect my feelings were more those of interest in seeing the bombers and the dog fights at such close range and only had a small tinge of apprehension and fear.

My diaries for the early ‘40s show that the mornings of the school week were occupied with academic subjects but that entries for any of the afternoons were of the kind, "exercises with Army cadets", "uniform parade on sports field". By 1941 I paralleled my army cadets with, "after school to A.T.C.", (Air Training Corps), "scored 100% in recognition of aircraft test", "practise at morse".

During the same period I meticulously recorded air raid alarms and consequent aerial activity. It was not unusual to experience two alarms a night and at least one a day. ON October 20th 1940, "Alarm 8.20 — 8.44a.m.", October 21st "Morning — whilst standing on school stairs watched 3 bombs land near Park Street. Afternoon — Portland bombed. 7.45 p.m. Alarm bomb landed on National garage — 3 killed outright — 8.25 p.m. clear", October 22nd "Intense aerial activity in evening".

Certainly there were times, such as night air raids, when the flash and rumble of bombs landing nearby did stir the adrenaline and cause and element of fear, but overall there was a strong element of voyeurism, at being part almost of an ongoing movie, and a determination to play an active role in the war.

Written by P. Love on 1st November 2004.

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