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When German bombers turned for home after their mission to attack this or that town or city, they often had one or two bombs left. Whether they deliberately kept back a few to drop on targets of opportunity, or, in the heat and stress of the attack simply didn’t always manage to drop them all before turning for home, is something I have never known. Either way, they would fling them out as they flew back.
One such bomb fell somewhere uphill from the Band Room at Hill Top in Slaithwaite. Perhaps it was aimed at the wireless masts even further up the hill, but it landed in a field.
There was only one casualty, a cow.
In those days the Curate of Slaithwaite was Mr Mowll. (He was later to be Vicar of nearby Golcar.) My wife remembers his mannerism of blowing and snorting as he spoke. My wife’s godmother, Edith Haigh (who died in 1998), would tell the story by mimicking the way Mr Mowll had himself told it more than once around the village, ending it portentously with his own concluding words, “Poor cow!”, much to the amusement of her listeners.

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