蜜芽传媒

I was an only child living with my parents in Idle in the outskirts of Bradford, and I have very clear recollections as to how it all began.

At the beginning of September 1939 my mother鈥檚 brother, Uncle Billy, was on holiday staying with us. On the Saturday he took me for a walk through the local woods. As we came out at the other side we came across a big clump of blackberries, the fruit was ripe and juicy. He spread his handkerchief on the ground and we quickly picked enough berries to fill it to the point where there was just enough space for him to tie the corners together, forming a makeshift carrier. Then he took off his flat cap and put that on the ground. We continued picking until it was full with ripe berries, and made our way home as quickly as possible, anxious to give my mother our rich harvest.

The next day was 3rd September. I was playing in our back yard when my parents called me inside. They were sitting with Uncle Billy, all listening to the wireless. I don鈥檛 remember what was said but I know that at the end Uncle Billy said 鈥淭hat鈥檚 it then.鈥�. He immediately went upstairs, packed his case and went back home to Newcastle.

The following Tuesday I was due to start school. My mother took me there in the morning to make sure that the teachers knew who I was. At dinnertime I came home with a letter to my parents from the headmistress saying that she thought that things would now be very difficult in school, changes would have to be made, and therefore my parents should keep me at home, sending me back to school when the war finished. It鈥檚 just as well that my parents ignored this advice and promptly sent me to another school.

At first nothing much happened to disturb my life. Frank Buckley, who lived next door, was in the army serving in France. He had given me one of his brass buttons before he left. My mother said that he hadn鈥檛 wanted to go but he had his orders. I noted that that was what soldiers did, obey orders. Soon things changed with the evacuation from Dunkirk. We all waited anxiously for news of Frank鈥檚 return, but sadly none was forthcoming. His parents went all through the war not knowing what had happened to him and fearing the worst.

At the beginning of 1940 we started to get air raids. When the sirens sounded my mother and I went down into our cellar to shelter. My father was an air raid warden and when the sirens sounded, he had to report to the ARP command post. We had several raids and on one occasion we heard the bombs falling, causing considerable damage in the centre of Bradford. During one raid Mr Buckley joined us because he had hurried home from the pub when the siren had sounded, only to find that his wife had locked the door and wouldn鈥檛 let him in. I remember sitting on the cellar steps waiting for the 鈥渁ll clear鈥� to go. It was very quiet when Mr Buckley said 鈥淟isten, the buggers are over again.鈥� I was mortified. Mr Buckley had said a rude word that small boys were not allowed to use. The story of that night very quickly became part of family folklore

In May 1942 a German bomber crashed on some houses, just half a mile from our house. The next morning we went to see the damage and if possible get some souvenirs, but there were soldiers, airmen and police surrounding the site to keep everyone away. They were still digging for survivors. Four or five people were killed on the ground but all the German crew had baled out to safety. When we couldn鈥檛 get near to scavenge some authentic souvenirs, we all returned to our homes to create our own mementoes. Cellars and attics, garden sheds and tool boxes were searched for anything that could be passed off as coming from a Junkers 88 bomber. Many lies were told in the days and weeks afterwards to substantiate the authenticity of a bogus piece of metal or lump of rubber. My father鈥檚 work with the A R P meant that he was on duty at the telephone exchange that awful night, so I knew that he was involved in the war effort.

Another tragic event occurred around the same time. The local 蜜芽传媒 Guard unit had gone to some moors a few miles away for special training on the firing of a field gun. A shell exploded in the breech, killing two of the gunners. It left two widows and a boy and a girl as orphans in the village. I knew the boy quite well as he lived at the end of our terrace and we had often played together.

We also had some evacuees move into the village, having left their home in London because of the bombs. The boy, Eddie, was in my class at school and sometimes we played together.

One day some workmen arrived to build a communal air raid shelter on some spare land just outside our house. I cannot remember it being used for its intended purpose, but we children put it to good use during games of hide and seek.

My mother and father had left Newcastle in the 1920s at the time of the depression and the General Strike, but they returned to Tyneside as often as possible. This meant that the family travelled North for Christmas, Easter and summer holidays. We each had a case to carry but mine was only small because, as a small boy I had few possessions to take with me. Of course we carried our gas masks and took our ration books and identity cards with us. The journey was always the same; by bus to Leeds and then a train North. The wait in Leeds station was often long and boring because of the unreliability of the timetables. When we crossed the huge bridge at the approach to Newcastle Central station I always felt a twinge of excitement. I soon learned that Newcastle was more important than Bradford because each visit seemed to reveal more bomb damage, and there were the barrage balloons flying high above the city to protect the armament factories, the docks and the shipyards.

My father and I usually stayed with his sister, Bella, and my mother went to stay with her parents or one of her sisters. I can remember my Auntie Bella and Uncle Jack listening to the 9 o鈥檆lock news and then kneeling in front of the fire to pray for the safety of their sons who were both away in the forces. My cousin Ken was in the navy serving on a motor torpedo boat. His elder brother, Jack, was in the army. He had been in the Territorial Army and had been mobilised on the outbreak of war. He was soon sent overseas and served continuously, first in Egypt, then in Greece, Crete, the North African campaign and Sicily before coming home at the end of 1943. He was in Europe again with the D Day landings and, sadly, was killed in 1944 on the fifth anniversary of the start of the war.

There are no bridges over the Tyne down river from the centre of Newcastle. To get across the water you had to use a ferry. These were small boats which scurried back and forth at fixed points. There was one ferry which was a firm favourite of mine so much so that whenever we went north I had to have my ferry ride. It did a double crossing, from Walker and Wallsend on the North bank to Jarrow and Hebburn on the South side. Each round trip gave four clear views of the Swan Hunter shipyard, which was packed with new vessels on the stocks and war ships of every description moored all around, waiting or undergoing repair or refit. This was the purpose of our journey, to see these vessels. My Uncle Jack usually went with us, which was great. He knew everything about these ships, the names (always prefixed by 鈥渢he鈥�, never 鈥淗MS鈥�), where they had been, the extent of the damage, the number of casualties and the sinkings or damage inflicted on the enemy; for new warships, the launching date and the start of the sea trials. I sat there wide eyed with admiration and believing every word.

After one of my visits to Newcastle I wrote to my cousin Jack. I told him that I had been staying at his house and that while I was there I suffered from heat spots. His mother had to dab me all over with camomile lotion. He wrote back saying that he hoped that my spots were better and that he didn鈥檛 mind me sleeping in his bed as he had no need for it himself at that time.

Most of the men in my life, including my father, had served in the first world war, and so I learned from overheard conversations what our troops were going through.

My father was too old to be called up and eventually he had to go away to Rotherham to work in a munitions factory. I remember walking with him to the bus stop to say goodbye. As I walked home alone, I cried. This war was becoming nasty and personal. He was not away for long as he got another job, working in a local factory which made aeroplanes. My mother also started work. She and Mrs Skirrow, who lived two doors away, became porters at a local station, working for the L M S railway. As she said, she had to do her bit. The pair of them also had a lucky escape when the railway lorry, in which they had scrounged a lift home, overturned. Outpatient treatment confirmed that no bones were broken, so they went back to work the next day.

Gradually I became aware that things were changing. The grown-ups were becoming more cheerful and would praise Mr Churchill and General Montgomery. The newspapers and newsreels at the local cinema told of important victories, and we no longer took our gas masks when we went to Newcastle. The evacuees disappeared; one day, Eddie was not at school and we were told that it was now safe for him to go back to London. About this time one other escapade sticks in my mind. I played a lot with Roy whose father was in the navy. One day when we were playing out, Roy produced some cannon shells from his pocket. They were about the same size as the bullets used by the 蜜芽传媒 Guard for target practice, but fatter and with a rounded end. As we wandered around the village we threw these shells against walls and the sides of houses. Suddenly there was a flash and a bang as one exploded. I don鈥檛 remember who threw it but both Roy and I were petrified and fell to our knees. He sneaked the others back into his house.

My cousin Jack was killed in September 1944. The first time after that when we went to see my Auntie Bella, she cried when we went into the house. This surprised me, as until then I didn鈥檛 know that grown-ups cried. I believed that only children cried. I told myself that it was because she was very sad and loved her son very much, but I felt that Uncle Jack wouldn鈥檛 cry because he was a man.

We celebrated V E Day the following May. A street party was held for all the local children. Several tables were put together in a neighbour鈥檚 garden and we sat round to feast on things that we hadn鈥檛 had for a long time or even never had before. There was preserved meat and real eggs, jelly, blancmange, tins of fruit and iced buns. The ladies did us proud: goodness knows where everything came from. They said that they had been saving it for a special occasion and this was it.

Three months later we were on holiday in Newcastle. I was in bed when my father woke me. He told me to get dressed because the war with Japan was over. He then took me to a huge bonfire that was blazing on some nearby spare land. The grown-ups were singing and shouting, laughing and dancing. I think that some of them were drunk. Then the local home guard became involved. They brought smoke bombs and flares from the armoury to set off. The air was heavy with green and red smoke.

As my Uncle Billy had said six years earlier, that was it then. I felt a little disappointed that it had ended before I was old enough to become involved, but the grown-ups were very pleased.

The servicemen started to come home, kitted out in their new demob suits, and told more tales of their exploits. Cousin Ken had his naval stories about small boats and fast trips across the English Channel to create havoc at the other side. Cousin Jack had made the supreme sacrifice and was buried in a village churchyard in northern France. I have visited his grave a couple of times and find it very emotional and moving. Cousin Tom had served in the North African campaign and by a great co-incidence had bumped into cousin Jack in Alexandria when they both had a few days leave. Cousin Billy had been down the mine as a Bevin Boy because his name had come out of the hat. I felt disappointed for him because fate had decreed that neither of us should be given the chance to kill Germans, Japs or Italians. Harry, cousin Elsie鈥檚 husband, had served in the tank corps, got three stripes and wore a black beret. Danny, cousin Jean鈥檚 husband, had served on the Atlantic and Arctic convoys. He once got into hot water after he was found asleep on guard duty. Another Harry, cousin Joyce鈥檚 husband, had been in the air force and had had problems involving a W A A F who was decorated with a rubber stamp in places that small boys shouldn鈥檛 know about.

There were other especially happy occasions when prisoners of war arrived home bringing unbelievable stories of atrocious things that they had seen or had endured on their journey to hell and back. Eventually word came through about Frank Buckley. He had been killed before the evacuation of Dunkirk and was buried in Belgium. Sadly, Mr Buckley died without ever knowing the fate of his son.

These latter events caused me to change my mind about war. In 1953, when I was called up to do National Service, I then knew that there is no glory or glamour in war, only death and destruction, hatred, needless suffering and bloodshed. The grown-ups were right, small boys got it wrong

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