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A GENTLE WAR
February 16th — 28th 1943

During his RAF posting at Predannack Airfield in Cornwall my father, Kenneth Crapp, kept a diary. The diary runs from October 27th 1942 — June 7th 1944 and the first 4 month extract is included below. It shows an unexpectedly tranquil aspect of war — quiet background work on a somewhat isolated airfield, where an interest in birds and nature was undoubtedly ‘a saving grace’.

Tuesday, February 16th
I gave the hut a good sweep out this morning. Already it needed it even after the good clean it had not long ago.

Filling up accumulators and bottles with acid is tedious and needs care. Once I made my eye smart by rubbing it with a finger that had held rags to wipe off the acid.

Tea, change, the pass — and then to wait for the bus, or a lift. A lorry stopped and I had a lift into Helston. From there the PO van took me to Treluswell. I helped the driver to load up the parcels. On the way he told me of an accident near Devoran the evening before, when five soldiers were killed.

At 9pm came the stirring news of the Russian recapture of Kharkov: and the report of the Beveridge debate, with Sir John Anderson speaking for the Government. It looks as though they will accept most of the scheme — in time.

Two tales I was told:-

- The butcher had some eggs and said he’d got shell shock.

- The neighbour who came in for the paper said she was coming up the hill right by the church when the siren went. ‘Come on’ she said to her husband, ‘let’s get past this church’. Surely a caustic comment on Nazi bombing.

Wednesday, February 17th
I spent the morning repairing the extension loudspeaker. It was wire trouble, the speaker itself was all right.

At 5.30 comes the German news from Calais. We wait for it, while Uncle imitates the clipped tones of the announcer.

Today’s news — Russians still advancing: Germans pushing Americans back in Tunis: Kingsley Wood, in debate on Beveridge, says that the extent to which scheme will be applied will depend on financial position after war. This won’t satisfy Parliament and the people.

Thursday, February 18th
Back unexpectedly at the transmitters. I spent most of the morning learning how to tune the T1190 — a process learnt by trial and error.

On Tuesday night a lone raider dropped bombs on a point to the east of Housel Bay. It was a narrow squeak for some folk nearby.

Learnt how to tell the time by the Plough and the Pole Star. I asked Ron Curtis what position the Plough would be in at midnight on Midsummer’s Day. To my surprise he knew and worked it out. It’s invisible then, I believe, but still there, of course. Roughly, from 16 (or 40) you take away the unknown quantity and the month of the year and that will equal the time by the clock — up to 24 hours.

Let x = time by the Plough. Then at 2400 hours on June 24th (6 ¾ months) the time will be 40 — (x + 6 ¾ ) = 24
33 ¼ - x = 24
therefore x = 9 ¼

The pointers of the Plough then will indicate a quarter past nine.

I’m not clear how BST affects this, nor how long the Plough takes to revolve about the Pole Star (23 hours 56 minutes?). I must find out.

Friday, February 19th
Another day off! Pay parade spoilt the morning, but I got off early after dinner, wrote to Betty and posted my parcel at Ruan Minor. Then I set off — Poltesco, Porthallow, Manaccan. I want to get to know every road south of Helston and Helford River. I did quite a bit today. Porthallow is another tiny fishing hamlet: the inn is the Five Pilchards. The cove is pebbled and slopes steeply to the deep waters.

As I climbed the steep hill out of the village, the children came tumbling out of school: the boys gave a few mock salutes, some said ‘Hullo’, the girls smiled shyly and all looked me up and down as though I’d dropped from the skies.

Up to Manaccan and then straight back to camp in time for tea. Back in the hut, two of the lads came back from a cycle ride and were ravenous. I gave them a piece of cake each, for it never hurts to be generous — and got an apple back straight away.

Saturday, February 20th
At 9 I went up to enquire and found I am to stay here all next week. I wrote to Dad and Betty. Then I went for a shower with Syd Gould. The water was just warm and I didn’t stay under it long. Oh, for a good hot bath.

There is news about some more mechanics coming soon, so the hope of leave arises once more. Afternoon on duty. I found someone’s tin of black enamel, so I did the handlebars of my bike. For a while I sat outside and baked in the sun.

A visit to the Reading Room where I read Morrison’s speech on the Beveridge report. He was certainly better than the other two, but still there is missing that note of certainty. I didn’t like the complete rejection of the plan to make industrial insurance a public utility. Already, big firms like the Prudential have too much money to play with — it provides an opening for an unscrupulous man to reach power. Why have the government rejected this — pressure, invisible pressure, from the big companies, or fear of them, or a genuine belief that the plan is not essential to the success of the social security scheme. There is no need yet for a Minister of Social Security, although its creation might convince us all that the Government means business. The Government get a good majority, but also get the largest vote they’ve yet had against them. Straws in the wind.

Sunday, February 21st
Another glorious day, though the wind is stronger and keener today. I enamelled the rims of my bicycle this morning and the bike looks very neat.

I am now reading a Penguin Special called ‘How Russia Prepared’ — it is most interesting and tells quite a lot about the USSR behind the Urals. We have been kept in ignorance about Soviet Russia.

My letter to the NUT was written out correctly this evening and is to be posted tomorrow.

In discussion over the Plough, we weren’t able to discover why there is an apparent discrepancy in its revolution round the Pole Star — we need to see where it is early in the morning — and the last two mornings have been cloudy.

Monday, February 22nd
To St Ives by the milk lorry as far as St Erth station. The dairy there used to make good Ennis Vale Butter, now United Dairies have bought it up, though keeping the name. Today the milk is collected from all over West Cornwall and is pasteurised and cooled, then sent by rail in gas-cooled tanks to London. The churns carry 10 gallons but they are not always full; it’s a heavy job in the summer when there is more milk. The driver may have to do two rounds, or one long one.

St Ives again and once more I’m impressed with its quaintness and charm and the loveliness of its setting. John and Vyda were glad to see me. John was very well and as bluff and hearty as ever. He’s taking a promotion exam at Truro on Thursday and Friday — arithmetic, geography, general knowledge and police law — amongst them 1040 war regulations he’s supposed to know.

Vyda told me of their early married life: 17 years of it now. First as the young constable and wife who’d never been from home before, now stuck up at Wainhouse Corner, miles from anywhere and there they get a murder, an attempted murder, a suicide, swine fever, anthrax, and suspected foot and mouth disease. Stratton, then Camelford, then a station of their own at Polperro, where arty people run riot. Their first visitor there, while they were settling in on their first day, was an ‘arty’ man with a double-barrelled name who’d lost a pony and said he lived at ‘Hedges & Ditches’. Later he was found gassed in London and circumstances seemed to incriminate him in a murder, where the head of the murdered man was never recovered. John identified the gassed man by his ‘photo in the papers and informed headquarters. A swarm of reporters descended on Polperro and badgered them night and day for news: they even took to digging in the garden of ‘Hedgy Ditch’ for the missing head.

Also at Polperro were Austrian students who sang the Horst Wessell Song, forbidden in this country, out on the rocks beyond the harbour, so keeping the fishermen awake. John tackled these students nicely and told them it wasn’t fair on the fishermen. To his surprise he was told that it was only being done to annoy the policeman who in the previous year had chased them off with his truncheon; they didn’t know John had replaced him.

In Polperro, too, was a man who went around with only a loincloth on: he was adequately covered, so John couldn’t touch him. An old fisherman eyed him closely though, as he came by in his loin-cloth, and said ‘You’m a bit cold, bain’t ee?’.

In St Ives, there are now only John and a constable and the war reserves. Mines are washed up, soldiers break in … and even robbed the British Legion canteen, and last August John was in a sweat when he saw the crowds of holiday-makers in the beaches — most of them without identity cards. Not long after, while they were having a few hours off harvesting, St Ives was bombed, the gas works damaged and the beaches machine-gunned — with only one casualty. John caught it hot and proper for not being on the spot, although it was his time off. The gas works were out for 6 weeks, and they at last got the electric light put in the police station.

As for promotion, he now has many ahead of him in the running for an inspectorship and to make matters worse, Penzance Borough Police now join the County force and all of them have to be made up — more competition. I learnt that it was as a result of the collections made over the country after the lifeboat disaster, enough was collected to build a row of houses for the dependents of the drowned, and to give them an adequate pension for life.

I played the piano and then went down to see ‘Mrs Miniver’, but a notice was hung on the door of the cinema saying that there would be no show as the film had not arrived. St Ives has two picture houses, owned by local people, one, the Royal is very comfortable and shows poor pictures; the other, the Scala, is cold, uncomfortable and flea ridden, but shows much better films.

Tuesday, February 23rd
I rose at 8; Mrs Perkins gave me my breakfast and I caught the 9 bus to the milk station. There I watched five, two men and three land army girls, packing broccoli at the entrance of the opposite field; picked according to size and the leaves cut back. the packed in wooden crates, 12 in a crate — then to St Erth station for training to London or the Midlands.

The flower pirates of Penzance and the Scillies have now been caught. They’ve been down and bought the flowers and taken them back in suitcases to sell at exorbitant prices. Now they can be compelled to unload at any station where their load might be suspected.

The driver of the milk lorry who drove me back to beyond Helston was only 17 and waiting to be called up. He’d volunteered for flying duties.

Trouble at the transmitters, but we’ve had similar trouble before and I soon got it put right.

Campden this evening; fish cakes for supper, piano and mandoline and a pleasant chat.
They told me of contraband. I heard again the story of the wine that came in some years ago. I hear too of the lard that came in during the last war; fine quality lard that found its way into almost every Mullion home. Men waded up to their necks in water to retrieve the cases. Mr T, too, once found three perfectly good cheeses.

Wednesday, February 24th
Mr Churchill has some inflammation of the lung; Gandhi’s life is in peril as a result of his fast — he wants unconditional release from prison.

In Tunis the German thrust at American HQ gets more serious and the 1st army hasn’t yet been able to remedy the situation.

Taffy comes down and we struggle to put a new ebonite screw in the valve holder, so that the short to earth which caused the trouble shall not recur. This done, we find a further fault in a duff rectifier.

It was tiresome to spend a lovely afternoon waiting for and then attending a drill parade. However, we were not kept long, and then three of us hastened down to Caerleon.

Thursday, February 25th
There’s a joy in awakening when something definite has to be done. This morning we had planned an expedition to the otter cave, in St George’s Cove, and to Pigeon Hugo, which Ron Curtis hadn’t seen.

We crossed the ‘drome and left our bikes near the old quarry, then we struck across the fields towards Predannack Cove. On the cliffs a coastguard told us where it was and we found it, well hidden, on the south side of the headland. The descent was steep, but quite easy. The cave had fallen in — not surprising seeing that we found a position above where a pile of hand-grenade pins revealed its use. At Pigeon Hugo, Ron was startled by the implacable enmity it seems to show towards mankind. It is a most awful place. A stone dropped from the top fell into the water after 4½ seconds.

Friday, February 26th
Bicycle easy to clean now that the weather is so dry. A lovely day again. The wind has been absent for quite a long time now.

Saturday, February 27th
The Plough at 4.30 this morning registered 10 o’clock. For the third successive morning there was a white frost, quite heavy this morning. Beyond Pigeon Hugo is a rocky headland called the Horse. We went there this morning and clambered out to its end, it is quite accessible. Away across the entrance to Gew gorge we saw a figure descending to Dr George’s Cove. There we discovered many more, huddled in the cliff higher up than the entrenchment. When loud explosions brought all the gulls into the air, we knew that once more the cove was being used for hand-grenade practice.

Soon after the departure of fighters for France, I heard the deep hum of heavier planes high above the clouds, and for quite a while the staccato noise of machine gun fire came down to me.

Leon [Ken’s cousin] came home on leave last Monday, but found a telegram telling him to rejoin his unit immediately. He’s now at Wroughton, on a short course.

Nine more mechanics are due on Monday. Corporal James goes on leave on Wednesday and I may follow him.

At Campden this evening I heard the tale of the Devil’s Apron Strings. Somewhere on the right hand side of Mullion Cove is a huge pile of stone at the base of the cliff. No matter how much is taken away, the pile never seems to get smaller, so the story goes that the place is a scene of an accident to the Devil who came in from the sea one dark night carrying a huge load of rock in his apron. He stumbled, his apron-strings broke — hence the rock.

Sunday, February 28th
A sudden desire for fresh scones came to me this morning, so I had a meal here of toasted cheese and toast and jam, and set out right away at 12.30. I was at Kennack, about to leave my bike, at 1.15.

On the cliff near Treleave, I found paper, as though torn from a book. I saw it was French and passed on. Nearly home again, I saw another paper, lying by the road. A similar paper and I thought how strange that whoever had dropped the first should have been all that way away from the second.

Now I know that they were propaganda leaflets for France, dropped here in error. They were an attempt to smooth over the difficulties between Giraud and de Gaulle.

This evening the W/O rang me up to say that I could go on leave on Saturday week.

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