大象传媒

Within the next five weeks, with a lot of the inner city children who had been evacuated already drifting back to Birmingham, homesick or just 鈥榣ost鈥� in the countryside, only knowing city life, in all their wisdom the Government decided to evacuate the rest of the city鈥檚 future inhabitants. Along with my cousin Gordon, I found myself 鈥榖us鈥檈d to Castle Bromwich Railway Station early one morning (first week in January 1941) entirely equipped, as were hundreds of others, with a Gas Mask, a lapel label with my name and school on it, and a carrier bag with a packet of sandwiches, a bottle of water and a change of underpants, en-route to God knows Where.

It took until just before dark for our (鈥榥on-war鈥� priority) train to reach a place called Mansfield (Notts) where we got a cup of tea, and boarded separate buses for various parts of Derby and Nottinghamshire. Our two classes from Peckham Road, with accompanying teachers i/c 鈥� Miss Val Aslin and Miss Stinton (Deputy Headmistress and young probationary teacher respectively) finally arrived at Codnor Park Junior School, Ironville, Derbyshire, in the early evening. There, the local Scoutmaster and Vicar had organised a makeshift meal, and we sat around the outside wall of the Assembly room on wooden gym benches. Slowly, local villagers came and walked around and selected boys or girls who were to be billeted with them (by Government order, not choice I was much later informed), but as our Gordon quite emphatically insisted (on strict instructions from our respective Moms) we were not going to be parted. We must have looked a right pair of tearaways, for we were long-last, and after midnight taken to a not very salubrious terrace house, where the rather obnoxious odour of the place was not entirely down to the screaming infant, nappy-less and naked from the waist down, with its dinner of doubtful origin (partially digested) lying where it dropped on the floor. I do not remember too much of that night 鈥� be it due to exhaustion or unconscious mental blockage 鈥� but I do remember Gordon using the coppers he had been given by his mom, under dire threat to use them to phone her friend (the local Publican) next day and report on the days happenings. By lunchtime (it was Sunday) my parents, Aunt Daisy and Uncle Jim were in Ironville in a 鈥榖orrowed鈥� car, Miss Aslin was out and about (was the dear lady ever anything else?) and we were whisked away in Miss Aslin鈥檚 car to a virtual heaven in a village nearby called 鈥楪olden Valley鈥�, a smallholding and only house in the lane called simply 鈥楾he Cottage鈥�, Golden Valley 鈥� to be our home, lovingly remembered for the next 14 months or so, where 鈥楢unt鈥� and 鈥楿ncle鈥� Ashmore provided for us, and the youngest of their five children still living at home, the lovely Bertha, who was a 16 year old employed in the office of the nearby Butterlea Colliery. If you are out of breath just reading that last long sentence, well that鈥檚 just how it seemed to happen. What a change from the previous twenty-four hours.

The village, a public house, a Wesleyan Chapel and houses each side of the main road up the hill to Riddings and Leabrooks villages. At right angles to the main road, and the opposite of a canal to 鈥淭he cottage鈥�, were two separate rows of stone terrace houses built by the colliery owners originally for its mineworkers. (These are now listed buildings.) Gordon and I were welcomed to the village on returning from our first afternoon, back from school in Codnor Park (about a mile away) by eight or ten village lads, with accents we picked up soon afterwards - 鈥淗ey! You Vaccies! D鈥檡ea wann fate?鈥� We gathered that this translated to the 鈥楤rummie鈥� as 鈥淗ey, Who the 鈥溾�斺�� are you? Wanna smack in the gob!?鈥� We bravely settled for a snowball fight across the frozen canal, thinking that was prudent enough. When they saw a reaction they stepped up the fire rate, but when we didn鈥檛 succumb, they, with the advantage of local knowledge, started walking across the ice (inches thick further North) and we though, 鈥淥h aye! Now we鈥檙e in trouble.鈥� We were saved from an early punch-up by this huge jovial chap about twenty years of age, who appeared from nowhere behind us laughingly crying come on lads 鈥� give et to em.鈥� Our meantime saviour introduced himself as Frank Ashmore, home from his 鈥榤orning鈥� shift in the mine Wheelhouse, come to see what the war had foisted on his Mom and Pop. Frank was the youngest of Bertha鈥檚 four brothers, who helped us no end during that year, not just in our 鈥榖attles鈥� with the 鈥淕olden Lot鈥�.

I last saw any of the Ashmore family (apart from grandchildren) when I cycled up that way for a week whilst on my last holiday before 鈥榮igning-on鈥� for the King鈥檚 77 shillings (how times and values had changed!). I was remembered for sure - ! Hello Gordon! How are you?鈥� Some personality I must have had. But later in years, like 1991 say, I was unable to thank those lovely folk for all they had done for us, for the big Reunion at the Village Pub celebrating V.E. Day, threw up only half a dozen folk who remembered us. Arthur Ashmore鈥檚 daughter, born after we returned to Brum, who told me that Bertha was the last to survive, passing away in 1989. I was pleased to meet a rather shy-embarrassed Connie Stewart who was the only girl in the village who did fight with me. I think I had been teasing her, and she belted me all round the canal (I still claim it was possible because I never hit girls!). I did what cousin Gordon had hoped (he being safe in New Zealand) by inviting the surviving twin Tommy King to the pub do! Billy and he had led the village boys in more than one altercation in 1941, and Gord asked me to 鈥榮hout them a beer鈥�, especially that Billy King. Sadly, Billy too had passed on, but to my surprise it was Tommy that insisted on buying the first one. What a night that turned out to be.

Back to Brummagen and the War! The 鈥榲accies鈥� returned in dribs and drabs, Miss Aslin gained her first 鈥楬ead鈥� position (at Burlington School, Aston) I developed Chorea (many years later put down to the trauma of responsibility in the Air Raid Shelter, where an unexploded shell screamed down in imitation of a bomb which I thought had my name on it!) and as previously recorded, lost so much important school time, for instance, what is 鈥榮yntax鈥�, or 鈥榣anguage inflexions鈥� and why do I repeatedly spell and pronounce certain words incorrectly? Especially pronunciate as I know that many instances of poor English I see and hear today are only obvious because of the old standards of publication and broadcasting demanded.

So then, on through the final primary years, via trying to catch up on lost learning hours and recovery physically to an extraordinary experience in 1943. Most schools, apparently, 鈥榓dopted鈥� one of the Merchant Ships bringing in Convoys the essential provisions we at war could not self supply. Our school adopted the Dutch M.V cargo vessel 鈥淭he Frans Hals鈥�, named for a famous Dutch painter. The issue of a new design on the English Halfpenny coin in 1938, depicting Captain Cook鈥檚 Endeavour, it was thought to be a great idea if all the school children 鈥榮aved鈥� any 鈥榮hip half-pennies鈥� which were collected at school. These were used to buy the untreated thick yarn known as Sea Boot Wool, then volunteer lady鈥檚 groups knitted this into socks, gloves, hats and sweaters for the brave crew of the merchant men. Gord鈥檚 mom, my Aunt Daisy (there she is again) was at the time a cashier at the Co-Op Dairy in Vauxhall Road. She conned, cajoled and tempted the poor milk rounds men to turn over the 鈥楽hip Half-pennies鈥� they had collected en route, so when we took our 3 or 4 half dozen (big families) ha鈥檖ennies to school on Mondays, Gordon turned up with a canvas bank bag bulging with loot! So it was no big surprise when the 鈥淔rans Hals鈥� berthed in Liverpool to unload holds full of South American grain, and the Captain invited three masters and three boys from the seniors to visit the ship for a day at his expense, to show their gratitude to the school, that Gordon should be one of the boys. For once, fate turned its fickle face smilingly in my direction. Two days before the trip, Gordon went down with Scarlet Fever, and it would appear later that Daisy Bennett used her business (NB!) technique, persuasive power and feminine charm to convince the school management that I should be whisked out of primary for the day and represent Gordon, Aunt Dais and the Co-op Milkmen in Liverpool. What a great Day! The carrier bag we were all requested to take with us was stacked with exotic fruits which were unavailable to us wartime folk 鈥� peaches, grapefruit, bananas and coffee beans, and I always remember asking the oldest teacher 鈥� 鈥淲hat is a pommygramit, Sir?鈥� He explained the ins and outs of a Pomegranate to me, and as no one could produce a pin, which I did know how to use from the 鈥楽unday morning 鈥淧erriwhilk鈥� man in those days, I had to wait till I got home to practise pipping. I must record that this was the only thing that whole day that did not leave me with an ecstatic impression. I have not tried one since. After dinner at the Captain鈥檚 Table we lads were given the run of the ship, save for the Chart Room and the Crews Quarters. Up and down the deck ladders we went, watching the grain being sucked out of the holds into huge contains ashore, 鈥渟teering鈥� the ship in the wheelhouse, 鈥渇iring鈥� the after mounted machine gun and the port and starboard 鈥楶om Pom鈥� (oerlikew) guns (sadly no ammo), though I鈥檓 still not that aggressive towards 鈥楽cousers鈥�! Being looked at curiously by some of the very mixed crew in one of the dingy lower deck passageways, who were playing cards on an upturned orange box, not a word of English amongst them.

Next day at school I was brought down to earth and humility by the new Head Teacher. I was to address the whole of the Primary School in the Hall passing on the thanks from the 鈥淔rans Hals鈥� Captain and Crew, and relating all that had occurred. I was terrified, and to this day cannot remember any of it except looking down on that sea of open mouthed (some curious, some envious, some just glad of a chance to miss arithmetic or choir practice) faces and feeling guilty that I had wasted that 鈥榩ommy grammit鈥�, dammit! Little did I know that some 40 years on, I would give a talk on 鈥淧eckham Road School in Wartime鈥� in that same hall to two classes of 9-10 year old children, and that one of them, who kept asking me pertinent questions, was a German born son of parents in 鈥楢achen鈥� in the 鈥楻hur鈥� Valley, which the R.A.F Bomber Command almost obliterated. He explained this fact to me with the last of his 鈥渞equests to speak, Sir鈥�, and said he was sorry that I was hurt during the war. I don鈥檛 think I had ever, nor will ever again feel so deflated as a that moment, before those twenty odd children in that second class, who had been hanging on my every word, and studying the old photo鈥檚 and lists I had copied for them from old books and magazines.

So, senior boys for 18 months whilst the war dragged on, now comparatively peaceful at home, staff and pupils 鈥榤aking do鈥� under still heavy rationing, the City slowly clawing its way back to its productive self, at the same time as clearing bomb sites and throwing up temporary buildings, like the 鈥楤ig top鈥� site, and the big push on with War Production 鈥� 鈥淒ig for Victory鈥�, National Savings stamps, Make do and Mend campaigns. Up came the Air Raid Shelter, dad extended 鈥榦ur shed鈥� with most of it. He grew Scarlet Runner Beans up the strings he had fixed to the boards fencing our garden from the church back basement entrance. The flowerbeds were converted to vegetable patches (except for Mom鈥檚 favourite two rose buses, which were transplanted every time they had moved house). Ask my friends and neighbours now, who has the best Runner鈥檚 in Chelmsley Wood, and I don鈥檛 mean the 鈥榦ld bangers鈥� for sale on local grass verges.

We (Gordon鈥檚 gang) joined the St John鈥檚 Perry Barr Scouts Group, a couple of superb camps at Colwall (Malvern Hills) and two more at Borth Head near Aberystwyth. Over 100 keen lads with a Fyffe & Drum band which developed enough in the kitty to purchase two sets of bagpipes. The marches they played still help me swing along when tramping the Malvern鈥檚. They fetched a few Taffys out of their homes too, when we marched noisily down the High Street (?) Borth, on the way to Sunday Morning Church! Then on Ynyslas railway station on that final Saturday, one of our King Scouts purchased a newspaper. The headline was 鈥� 鈥淎TOM BOMB DROPPED ON HIROSHIMA鈥� and the World War II was virtually done, and I was in Wales to read of it. 鈥淎NG HITLER鈥�.

[For Brian Noden's further reminiscences see "Wartime Memories of Kingstanding, Birmingham" and "V.E. Day in Kingstanding, Birmingham]

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This story was contributed by Solihull Heritage & Local Studies Service, Solihull Libraries by kind permission of the original contributor. It was originally contributed to Solihull Heritage & Local Studies Service's collection in 2005 (Ref: NC Solihull Historical: Reminiscences 2005/8).

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