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WORLD WAR 2 THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD

By Mr Rene¢A Maby
rene@octopusinteriors.com

For me World War 2 was exciting and memories are vivid. I was aged eight when it started and thirteen when it finished. So I saw it through the eyes of a schoolboy living in the safety of the rural Cotswolds. Even there many things happened which affected everybody including the children. To me, latterly at the local Grammar School, it was utterly fascinating and at times really sad. I remember the headmaster reading out the names of all the old boys who had been killed, a long list which made a lasting impression on us children. Then there were our young teachers, girls of only eighteen or nineteen, worried about their boyfriends away at the war. My father was heartbroken when the news came that his young pre-war assistant had been killed on a bombing raid

I still have the war diaries which I wrote every day from early 1944 until late 1945; in other words from the build-up to The Invasion (D Day) until after the end of the war in the Far East (VJ Day) Twelve school exercise books in all! Every evening I would listen to the ��ѿ��ý six o’clock news, avidly making notes of all the facts and figures which we were allowed to be told in those days. Much was either not told for security reasons, or delayed in order not to upset the morale of the relatives and people back at home. This I augmented by taking copious cuttings from the Daily Mail. Their battle maps in particular, with bold arrows showing where the main attacking thrusts were, illustrated the news most graphically. Overall I accumulated a large amount of statistics, from the numbers of men and equipments deployed to casualties and other horrors of war. My particular fascination was the numbers and quantities of people and materiel involved. Then there were the pictures of all the great leaders at that time and the war criminals involved and how they finally got their cum-uppance. To this day I find reference to these diaries quite fascinating and I would like a good home for them so they are not lost after my time.

Whilst these diaries tell the story of the main war, my memories of life in our little Cotswold village are many and varied. In the early days we accommodated many of the survivors from the evacuation of Dunkirk. These soldiers came straight to the village from the local railway station. Apparently they had been dispersed widely across the country as the Armada of little boats brought them back from the beaches of Dunkirk. They arrived as they had been rescued, many with little equipment and tattered uniforms. They were accommodated in the Village Hall; also a large farm barn, where they slept on straw. These are my first memories of the kindnesses of the locals who rallied round and gave them food from their rations and whatever help they could manage. After what feels like a week or two they disappeared as quickly as they had come.

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Soon an aerodrome was built in the valley below us and this became one of the big bomber bases, home to what became the well known Wellington bomber. We would hear these taking-off at night for bombing raids on Germany. Heavily loaded with bombs, sadly not all succeeded. One of my most striking memories is the night one crashed into our hill. Many of the villagers streamed across the fields in a desperate attempt to save the crew. It was not to be as the plane exploded in a flaming pyre. I was held back from seeing the worst of the horrors. None of the crew escaped

Being in what was known as a reserved occupation my father was one of the fortunate few who did not go to war. To my surprise in 1940 he was offered an immediate rank of captain in the Royal Engineers if he went to Belgium to search out the precise positions of the Maginot Line, a First World War defensive line. He did not go and his main contribution to the war effort was utilising his skills as a scientist and dowser (i.e. water diviner) to develop the early radar systems. He built Heath Robinson equipment, mainly using meccano. He would often stay up all night tracking German aircraft as they flew towards our cities on bombing raids. I recall his excitement as popping sounds came from his loudspeakers and images moved across the dials. His zenith was when an Air Marshall visited his laboratory to pick his brains. The development of radar was vital especially for the RAF and he was one of the un-sung and un-rewarded heroes in this field. In true Dad’s Army style he even got arrested by the Dunkirk veterans who were convinced he was a spy operating his equipment in the garden in the dead of night. He was also the local Air Raid Warden and the siren was positioned on the third floor of our house at the top of the village. My highlight was to answer the phone and be told by an official sounding voice at the other end “air raid warning red!” I would dash out to my father’s laboratory, tell him, then rush upstairs and set-off the siren. There was a terrific rush of adrenalin as the sound carried into the far distance in the valley below. We could see fifteen miles. Later there would be the “all-clear” and reason to sound the siren again. In the event we never did have a German raid over us, only the odd few bombs dropped harmlessly in the fields as the planes turned for home not having dropped their load over a target. But at night we did hear the planes droning overhead and we could see the sky lit up from distant fires in the city

Being in the country we were expected to take in evacuees from London and elsewhere. A whole family of distant relatives turned up to stay. However it was not long before my father and the other father rowed so badly that he said he’d rather face the German Blitz than stay with us! So back to London they went

Our next billetees were a Canadian army captain and his sergeant. They were much more to my father’s liking, as they were looking for spies. They had a van and a detector wireless (radio) and went out after dark and homed-in on their victims. I was delighted when they arrested a spy in a remote country estate lodge whilst he was contacting Germany

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Another memory is when all the iron gates and fences were cut down and taken-off for metling down to make weapons and armaments. Nobody objected as it was all in aid of the war effort. After the war though it was a different story when they had to pay to have them replaced!

Rationing became a way of life and in fairness people were remarkably fit and slim as the rations, though frugal, were a balanced diet. In some places there was, though, a “black market” where spivs and profiteers exploited people, mainly in the cities. We country folk were able to get a bit extra by rearing or growing it. The cry was “dig for victory” and many lawns and flowerbeds were turned into vegetable patches for the duration

The build—up to D Day had the greatest impact on me. Along the side of country roads corrugated iron shelters housed shells and ammunition of every sort. Completely unguarded, incredibly nobody stole or tampered with them. Again along the roadsides were lines of American Sherman tanks, their crews working on them. There was a large American tented camp on the hill. The Yanks would come down to the pub and village and the local girls thought them wonderful. Many were given nylon stockings. Suddenly one morning they were all gone and the village boys had a marvellous time finding baseball bats and all sorts of other goodies left behind in the deserted camp

Shortly after D Day, German prisoners of war started to arrive in hundreds and thousands. They were brought by train to the railway station two miles below us and then marched three abreast to the two camps which had been built on the top of the hill, one manned by British troops and the other by Americans. As with our own soldiers coming back from Dunkirk, they were dressed exactly as when they were captured. The purpose of the two camps was to process them before shipping them to the United States for the duration of the war. This processing comprised de-lousing, documenting and re-equipping them. The camps were clean and well managed and their treatment was most humane. In the few weeks they were here only a few tried to escape and they were normally quickly re-captured, having not got further than the local woods. In the latter stages of the war Italian prisoners also arrived and some were still here when the war ended. After a while and before they were repatriated, they were allowed out and worked on the local farms. Needless to say some fraternisation took place with the local girls. One attractive teenager caused quite a stir when she had three children all by fathers of different nationalities. One of my deepest impressions was the wonderful singing of the Germans. As the long columns of prisoners came up the hill en route for the camps they sang marching and drinking songs. We heard them coming from a long distance and I and the other children would sit on the wall and watch them pass. We realised that some were Nazis (and indeed recognisable from their SS uniforms) but many were young recruits and clearly relieved to be out of the rest of the war

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I have written this on the 60th anniversary of the end of the Second World War. Much has happened in the intervening years and the Germans have long since become our friends and partners in the world as it has evolved. However it was a time when we had to defend ourselves against Hitler and his henchmen. Had they succeeded, it is a sobering thought that we might well not have survived for to me to be able to write this account

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