“THE DAY WAR BROKE OUT . . . .”

“Happy Birthday, Arthur, we’ve just declared war on Germany !”. It wasn’t quite like that  but at eleven ‘o clock on my tenth birthday, we all gathered round the radio (Or wireless as it was then known) to hear Neville Chamberlain make his announcement.

Living as I did in Barrowford, a quiet village  in Lancashire, the next five years were exciting times. Dangers were minimal, the nearest bomb dropped was five or six miles away and the war was something you read about in the newspaper, saw on newsreels at the local cinema or heard on the wireless.

Rationing was something that concerned grow-ups. I had three meals a day and even in the worst times there was the occasional treat. Mum would save a bit of the sugar ration, find some peppermint essence, powdered milk and ‘magic up’ some peppermint sweets. Dad had a small allotment with a few chickens and a vegetable patch so I don’t remember missing eggs.

WARTIME CHRISTMAS

The thing was, being a small boy, I tended to see life around me as normal. The older members of the family ruined my enjoyment of post war Christmas for something like twenty years. At Christmas I would hang up a pillow case which was somehow filled ready for Christmas morning. A couple of Dinky army trucks, books, an apple, Mum’s ‘Mintoes’, a pair of hand knitted gloves. Maybe a flashlight or a book on aircraft recognition - what more could a boy want?

Dad would kill a chicken for Christmas dinner, there might be a tin of sliced peaches with Carnation milk and Mum would somehow have made a Christmas cake with some sort of icing surmounted by a model Father Christmas.

The sad thing was, parents, uncles and aunts always said something like “Eee! just wait ‘til the war’s over. Then you’ll see what a proper Christmas is like”. This completely mystified me as I thought we had a wonderful time. 

For many years after the war I waited for this ‘Proper Christmas’. I suppose at the back of my childish mind I must have been expecting something equivalent to the Second Coming, with angels and a heavenly chorus - the only thing I ever saw was ‘MORE’. More food, more presents, more parties, more relations. More and more and more but not really anything better.

WARTIME HOLIDAY

It would be easy to look back and think of the things we missed but at the time I don’t think I really missed anything. We didn’t have fancy holidays but that was more to do with cost rather than war time restrictions.

One year - it must have been 1942 or 1943 - I went with my mother and sister to an Aunt’s place in Tenby. We travelled by train which, somewhere in the Midlands, was ‘Attacked’ by British Mosquito’s as they practiced train busting. The planes swooped low over the length of the train  before circling round to have another go. Mum had to hang on the seat of my trousers as I craned out of the window to see the action.

Auntie Janie had a guest house in Tenby and Mum, Sister and I were lodged in the Annex which meant going out of the French windows at the front of the house and a couple of hundred yards round the garden to a separate little house.

I remember wakening one night in the pitch dark to the sound of aircraft and distant explosions. I guess the Germans were bombing Pembroke docks. I don’t recall being frightened of the raid but being a bit worried that my Mum and Sister were no longer in the annex with me.

I climbed out of bed, found my shoes and making sure I didn’t turn on or show any lights, stumbled and fumbled my way round to the French windows at the front of the house. Half way along my pitch black journey there was the sudden roar of a descending aeroplane and a crash as it clipped the top branches of nearby trees. It must have climbed out of trouble as, apart from engine noise, I heard nothing else. Again, I can’t remember any sense of fear just a strong desire to get to the front of the house and find my Mum.

I eventually found the French Windows which were heavily curtained so as to prevent any breach of the total black out. I scrabbled about over the window panes until I found the door handle. With a fair bit of scraping and fumbling I opened the door, pushed aside the curtain and there they were - Auntie Janie, Mum and Sister Dorothy.

They didn’t immediately look pleased to see me. Their faces frozen in horror - staring at the slowly opening door - fully expecting to see some enormous German airman brandishing a pistol!  All they got was little me.

The rest of the holiday was good. Glorious Summer weather. Tenby’s lovely beaches, talking to the Royal Marines who were in training, climbing Goscar rock and the cliffs.

WINGS FOR VICTORY

Back home in Lancashire the war continued. No doubt disrupting life for many thousands but all was serene in the life of a little boy.

We had convoys of army trucks to watch, stories of great battles being fought and the heroic deeds of our soldiers, sailors and airmen. Identifying aircraft as they flew over us, Wellington bombers, Westland Lysanders, Avro Ansons, Spitfires and Hurricanes. We would also have recognised many German planes but in our part of the world, never saw them. 

Dad was an ARP warden and occasionally would take me up the road, late at night where we could see the fires and explosions twenty-odd miles away in Manchester. We also heard the German aircraft flying overhead. We knew they were German because of the distinctive engine noise which was quite different to a British plane.

Every now and then we had a fund raising day. These parades were usually on a Saturday afternoon and the streets were lined with hundreds of local people as Army Cadets, Boys Brigade, Home Guard, Air cadets and other organisations marched behind the band to the local park where the band played and we listened to patriotic speeches.

One such day I remember was ‘Wings for Victory’ where money was raised to buy a Spitfire. Our park was separated from the main street by a river and access to the park was via one of two bridges. My mate Bill was a sergeant in the army cadets and was chosen to march, on his own, at the head of the parade. Behind him was the drum major who was also the parade organiser and then the village band.

It was a proud moment for Bill but as he recounts, the days went slightly awry. “I must have looked grand. Eyes front and back as straight as a ramrod. Old John (The drum major and organiser) had arranged for us to cross into the park at the second bridge so I marched straight past the first bridge and up the road. 

The first thing I heard was a couple of shouts from the crowd. Then I noticed the band was getting quieter. I took a quick look behind and saw the parade had turned right and were crossing the first bridge. There was an absolute roar of laughter as I had to run back and fight my way to the front of the parade.”

The explanation Old John gave for the mix up was that he lived at the far end of the village so the nearest bridge to him was the ‘First’. Bill lived at the other end so Old John’s bridge was the second.

SEATS GUARANTEED IN ALL PARTS

When the parade and the crowd of watchers had assembled round the platform, they heard speeches from a group of local dignitaries which included Herbert Hartley. Herbert was a local councillor. A large, plain spoke, self-made man who owned four cinemas in the local town, he could regularly be heard standing outside one of his picture houses haranguing passers by to buy a ticket. His favourite phrase, delivered with all the gusto of a fairground barker, was “Seats guaranteed in all parts”. As a twelve year old regular cinema goer, as most of us were in those days, I could never quite grasp what was being guaranteed. Did he mean you wouldn’t have to stand? Or was he assuring us that the seats wouldn’t collapse?

Local people had an a slightly cynical but amused regard for Herbert Hartley. He was, by local standards at least, rich, which placed him firmly amongst the ‘Thems’ rather than the ‘Us-s”. He was on the large side of portly whereas most mill folk were on the skinny side. This made him an easy target for jokes about black markets and his relationships with illicit pig slaughterers.

His address to the crowd was full of flowery phrases he had picked up from the popular press and the occasional bloomer such as “.... during those dark days our morals never weakened . . . “.

The crowd accepted this in a tolerant silence. This silence, however, continued when Herbert brought the event to a close by saying “ . . . so before we return to our effort to beat the Nazi hordes, we will all join together and sing Land of Hope and Glory”.

Unaccompanied, he launched into the song. As a small boy at the front of the crowd I looked round at the assembled mill workers behind me. Not a sound! They stood in total silence with occasional sly nudge for their neighbour as poor old Herbert struggled, manfully through to the end of the first chorus.

HOME GUARD

An essential part of any parade was the local Home Guard. To us kids they were nearly proper soldiers. They had uniforms and guns; they marched in columns and they used to hold exercises in the local quarry. These were strange affairs as they always attracted a crowd of local onlookers to watch a group of middle aged to old men throwing Molotov Cocktails (Petrol bombs) at imaginary tanks. 

It was even funnier to see portly, fifty year old shopkeepers going through the motions of unarmed combat.

Stanley, a local wagon driver, told me of the time they had a demonstration of unarmed combat in the local church hall from a trained Commando. One method of defence from a downward blow to the head was to hold your arm straight up above your head so that blow  was deflected down your arm and away from your skull.

After the demonstration they retired to the local pub before heading home to their wives. Stanley’s wife was not best pleased. She though the Home Guard was just an excuse for husbands to escape from household chores and she objected him coming home slightly the worse for wear after spending time in the pub.

Stanley was full of himself. He either ignored or didn’t see the look of annoyance on Hilda’s face but prattled on about the Commando training and what he had learned.

“Here you are love, take this poker and hit me on top of my head”

“Tha knows what?” He told me later “Afore I could get my ruddy arm up she cracked me ower th’ead wi’t poker!”

NOW HERE’S A QUESTION FOR YOU

A few years ago I read a book about the Second World War. In it a soldier recounted being in a German prisoner of war camp and in the next bed was a man from the British Home Guard. I cannot remember the title of the book or the author but I have serached without success for any mention of a member of the Home Guard being taken prisoner.

I have visions of someone leaving home to go on duty on a lonely stretch of the British coast and being taken prisoner by the crew of a U boat who had come ashore to land a German spy.

Imagine his wife thinking to herself “He’s late home, I’ll bet he’s in the pub again” Then, later, wondering if he had fallen in the sea and drowned.

If anyone has heard of such an incident, I would love to know.