大象传媒

My father, James (Hamish) Gow, volunteered for military service,soon after leaving secondary school in 1941. During his basic training at Prestatyn during late 1941-early 1942, he found himself fitting in quite well with the military regime and fitness programme. He has been a bursary-grant pupil at a boarding school for Highland boys, Keil School, in Dumbarton. The school excelled in sports, particularly rugby and my father was a three-quarter in their highly-successful First XV. The school鈥檚 proximity to the River Clyde and the Firth beyond and the valuable industrial heart of Scottish ship-building, oil and sugar industries and transatlantic commerce, meant that his introduction to WW2 would be not be long in coming. Apart from barrage balloons springing up seemingly everywhere, the Royal Navy鈥檚 appearance in the Clyde and merchant ships forming into parts of convoys, were the first signs of a war in progress. March 1941, however, would see the war come to Clydeside a hundred-fold, as the Luftwaffe bombed the area relentlessly. The sizeable shipyard town of Clydebank was all but obliterated, with only fifteen houses left standing. The oil storage tanks and refinery at Bowling went up in vast, boiling masses of fire and black smoke. Tate and Lyle鈥檚 sugar refinery at Greenock was similarly destroyed, as dangerous flaming blobs of red-hot, molten sugar flew through the air and stuck to clothing, hair and bodies like napalm. From Keil School, the whole burning, exploding scene could be viewed, as anti-aircraft shell-splinters dropped from the sky onto the rugby pitch. The school eventually moved for the duration to Kintyre, Argyll. Due to his father鈥檚 ill-health, my father finished school and the family moved to Perthshire.

My father鈥檚 best pal from the village, Geordie Clark, was a cheerful lad,always ready with a smile. He was a few months younger than my father and he too had just left secondary school. They joined up, both being assigned to the Royal Corps of Signals, but first they went to Pontins Holiday Camp Prestatyn, North Wales for basic army training. Geordie tended to be accident-prone, but led a charmed life. Once for instance, during their training squad鈥檚 first bayonet practice, the instructor demonstrated the proper bayonet charge technique by running and yelling at a suspended, filled sack. Driving home the bayonet, the twist, the withdrawal and the smack in the sack鈥檚 鈥榝ace鈥� with the rifle-butt. When it was the recruits鈥� turn, the Scottish instructor picked Geordie. As Geordie readied his bayonet-tipped rifle, the instructor said quietly but passionately 鈥淕o on Clark, gie it laldy and show these English how it鈥檚 done鈥�. Summoning all the wrathful anger of his Celtic ancestors, Geordie launched himself, his features distorted in some inherited ancient rage, while screaming a terrifying curse at the enemy sack. He drove his bayonet home with almost superhuman force, twisted, pulled back and began to run on to the next belligerent burlap. Just then, there was a loud 鈥淐lick !鈥�. Geordie鈥檚 rifle was now topped by a 1907 pattern SMLE sword bayonet, with a short metal stump where a seventeen-inch blade ought to be. Expecting to be soon up on the frame, replacing one of the filled sacks for the next round of bayonet practice, Geordie braced himself for the worst. Everyone was in shock. The Scots instructor, who probably was shocked, stepped in however and saved Geordie鈥檚 bacon - and Scotland鈥檚 pride. In front of the whole squad, he shouted 鈥淲ell done Clark ! The rest of you - see !! - That鈥檚 the sort of commitment I want to see from you lot !!鈥�.

Having survived the joys of close-quarter fighting, the squad was ready for live rifle, firing-practice. My father was already quite a good shot, having learned from his gamekeeper father. Firing-practice was sometimes held in the sand-dunes, sometimes on the beach, aiming out to sea. On one memorable occasion, St Peter nearly had a load of heavenly recruits arriving at the same time. While waiting for a sea-based target, some of the squad thought the dark, roundish object floating on the waves must be the target and started firing live rounds at it. As bullets flicked the waves near the 鈥榯arget鈥� or ricocheted off the object itself, the more astute in the vicinity started running about, waving arms wildly and shouting insanely. However, it turned out that their wild excitement was caused, not due to the high level of fun being had by all, so much as the target not being a designated target at all - it was in fact a live, anti-ship contact-mine which had broken its moorings and floated off along the North Wales coast !

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