ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝

The air raid warden was responsible for checking that every house had adequate black out on all the windows, this was very important because it hindered the German pilots in their missions to bomb Belfast, of course the Germans had aerial plans of Belfast, and knew were all the strategic buildings, railways and shipyard were, but the people of Belfast with their blackouts made sure that they would not make it any easier for the Germans to bomb them. One air raid warden who loved his job very much checked his blackouts keenly. One night after the air raid siren had gone he dutifully went about his business checking windows ,he saw a chink of light shining out from beneath someone’s window, the occupants of this particular house had grown tired of this over zealous warden, so when the warden shouted through their door ,”There is a light coming out from beneath your window, fix it”, an uneasy silence pervaded for a couple of minutes, until at last a voice as if from the bowels of the earth ,(probably from underneath the staircase) shouted back to the warden, “Is them Germans coming over in planes, or on their hands and knees.”

The faceless occupants won their point for the warden passed by without any further comment. Of course the occupants being more fearful of the Germans and not so afraid of the warden, rectified their blackout the following night

This story opens with a letter written by a British soldier on active service somewhere
near Calais, France. War has not yet broken out between Britain and Germany, hope is fading for a peaceful settlement. The soldier’s leave has been delayed, he is anxious to see his family once again before he is called into action against the German forces. His last visit home, on leave, was in November 1939.
The letter is dated 18 April 1940.

Dear Mother, Well here we are again
Back to the farm, conditions are much
worse but what else can one expect
on active service. We have been moved
since my last letter, note the new
address. I hope you are well.
I am not too bad, subject to the
usual colds, but if that’s all I will be
lucky. It was a bad disappointment
about the leave, let us hope it will start
soon. I was all built up for next week,
but now will be delayed. Write by
return and let me know how you,
are, also the children, don’t forget the new
address, the letters may take a little longer
now. Well cheerio for the present, your
loving son

I was almost two years old when my father wrote this anxious letter to my granny.
“When is my daddy coming home?” I asked her as I watched her reading his letter, I was excited at the prospect of my father coming home. “We shall see your father soon,” was her reply, “now we have to make this house tidy in case he arrives home sooner than we expect him to.” My granny being a very practical lady with a warm kind sensitive nature did not want to keep me anxious for long about my fathers leave.
To distract me, and I suspect herself, from any concern for my father, she gave me a duster and told me to dust the chairs and mantelpiece while she went off to the scullery to make the evening meal. I was easily distracted from my work as I listened to her sweet voice singing “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side.” Soon my brother John aged four years arrived to take me round the corner to my mother’s house. I was never allowed to go home on my own from my granny’s house. I was tired of doing the dusting, it was time for me to go home, my mother never asked me to do chores. I was greeted by my mother, “You’re back then.” She had that anxious look on her face that gave me feelings of unease, I had interrupted her reading of my fathers letter dated the same as my grannies letter, 18 April 1940. My father always sent two letters home, one to his mother and one to his wife. “When is my daddy coming home?” I asked her. Her reaction was different from my granny’s, for my mother had got tired of answering this question that was asked so frequently by her children. “Very soon, I hope,” was her reply, but her sad anxious face did not reassure me. My mother had not seen my father since November 1939, and it was now the middle of April 1940. It was understandable that she was anxious for her four children and the unborn child that she was carrying in her womb, since my father’s last visit in November 1939. Yet I, being only two years old was easily distracted and soon forgot my mother’s anxious look, for I had many chums in my street to play with. There were always great battles going on in our street. We all played at “War games,” “bang, bang you’re dead,” shouted those who were lucky enough to own a toy gun, as they pretended to shoot those unlucky enough not to have one, those who were shot lay still on the cobbled road with a pretence that was frightening. The pretend wars between us were re-enactments of the Hollywood movies that the older children saw in the local picture house. I was not allowed to go with my brothers, as I was too young. The pictures screened fights between cowboys and Indians. It was a fight in the street as to who would be the cowboys as they were considered the good guys, the Indians were the bad guys, and the street was always strewn with dead Indians. My brother used to say, “The Indians are the real heroes and victims.” I was always a victim for I was too young to protest otherwise to the older cowboys. I was happy to live in that make believe world, where one could be dead yet get up and walk away. I also enjoyed the respect that I had from the other children, because my father was in another country waiting to fight in a real war.

It was hard for my mother being an adult in that uncertain time (of April 1940), before my father came home on his last leave, she could not walk away from her responsibilities and I knew she never would, she was always there for us. I always remember her saying, “why did I ever leave home”, I could never be sure what she meant, her Heavenly home, or her own happy childhood in the peaceful country town of Coleraine. I remember once asking her what she meant by “her home” but she just smiled. My mother did smile and laugh often, despite her worries. I remember that while she worked (she was always working) she hummed perfectly in tune (to whatever it was she was humming, she never did sing the words). She was happiest of all when she was humming and doing her daily household tasks, and one of her favourite hums was “ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝ Sweet ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝.” Later on in life when I was much older I sang the song many times for my mother, I could see that she appreciated hearing all the words, especially the last sentence that had to be sung twice, “there’s no place like home”. I never knew what she was thinking, or if she was still sorry that she ever left her home.

There was great excitement mingled with relief when my father safely arrived home on his last leave from the impending war in France. I do not know the exact time of his arrival, it must have been sometime in early May 1940, and there was no mention of his leave dates on the Ministry of Defence’s war record of my father. I do know that when he came home he hugged and kissed us all, of that there was no doubt. He then took us all with him round to my grannies street (the next street from ours) where his mother and sisters were waiting to greet him; he hugged and kissed them also. My brothers and I were so proud to be seen with my father in his soldier’s uniform. My father was able to take my brother up onto his shoulder and me on the other one, how proud and secure I felt in his strong arms. Neighbours in the street greeted my father with “glad to see you again safe and well,” he happily replied that it was “good to be home”. Some days after my father’s homecoming, he took my brothers and me over to my uncle’s house. Some pictures were taken of us all. As usual I was in my father’s arms. I still have those photos that prove how proud my father was, and I was even prouder, perched high in his arms. My two older brothers went with my father to Ormeau Park and my uncle took a picture of the three of them beside a small lake (yes, there once was a small lake in Ormeau Park). My brothers were sad in this photo because my father was due to go back to France the next day. While we were in my uncle’s house, my mother was at home busily preparing my father’s uniform. By the time we all arrived home to her she was sitting on the settee diligently polishing his black army boots. How I hated those ugly black boots. The boots had taken up a corner of our small kitchen house during my father’s time with us. On one occasion I went close to the boots to smell them, the shiny new leather was not an unpleasant smell, but still, to me, those boots were a constant reminder of my father’s eventual departure from us all. How could my mother polish those boots with a vigour never used on the other shoes? Perhaps she was confronting them with the realization that she would not be polishing them again, once my father left. “Does my daddy have to wear those boots again?” I asked her. “They are part of his army uniform, he would not get back to the war without them,” she said. My father laughed, it was a relief to hear him say, “When I come back again I will leave those boots on the boat and wear my own shoes home.”

My father’s leave home was over, all too soon, for there he was, all kitted out in his army uniform, ready to go. He hugged and kissed us all, he told my mother, “I will send my new address to you when I find out where I will be stationed.” He lifted me up in his arms again and told me to be good and look after my mother (I was always good, I think?). I was glad to see the boots were not in their usual place in the corner of the kitchen, the glad did not last long for when I looked down from my lofty perch on my fathers shoulder, I could see the boots were on his feet. “Don’t go daddy,” I cried, as he gently put me down. “I will see you all soon”, he said, with sadness in his voice. Could I have stopped him from going to war with my childish voice? How was I to know that there was a more powerful, strident voice than mine speaking to my father? “Your country needs you,” urged the war office. The smell of the new leather on those boots seemed to choke me. We all watched as my father walked down our busy street. Strangely those heavy boots made little sound, unlike the noise they made when my father had come home up the street and my mother had said to him on his arrival at the door, “I could hear your boots before I saw you”. My father must have felt sad leaving us, how could his feet lift those heavy boots when, with each step he took away from us, his heart grew heavier. Did he hear the voices of the neighbours wishing him, “All the best, Harry”, as he went out of our view.

I recall a sentence from my father’s letter quoted at the beginning of this short story, “The letters may take a little longer now.” After my father left us to go back to the impending war, we received no more letters from him. We did get two postcards, one from London, on his way back to the war, and a field service postcard. These were the last communications we had from him. Sadly for my family and me those shiny black boots took my father away from us forever.

My father was three months “missing, somewhere in France” when my little brother was born in August 1940. My mother had a difficult time giving birth to him. All the stress and uncertainty of not knowing if my father was alive or dead must have troubled her constantly. I did not know how worried she was when I was two years old, it is only now as I write this little war story that I can understand how unhappy she must have been. I do not know how she coped, but cope she did and one of the reasons for this was that we had wonderful relations who took me and my three brothers into their care. We all lived in a time where people helped each other. I believe I still asked about my father but sadly this time I got no answers. It was too painful for my family to speak of him. It was Christmas 1940 when my mother took out the large wooden box full of mysterious letters and cards. I stood over her as she opened the box. It was then that she let me see my father’s messages to us all: a lace Christmas card from the previous year, “To my loving wife,” four Walt Disney birthday cards to all his children, “From Daddy with love,” and another picture postcard from France. There was also a picture of my father in his soldier’s uniform; this picture imprinted itself on my mind, a sad substitute for the real person. My mother carefully put all items back in the box and took it away to her special place. Many times she let me see the contents of her box yet I never saw my father’s letters to her, what happened to them no one knows. Years later I learnt that my grandmother had kept all her letters from her son and when she died her daughters had put them away in a safe place, eventually I acquired my father’s letters that were sent to my grandmother, from her daughter.

Before the year 1940 was over, my brother of four years almost died of pneumonia. Twenty-four hours daily of continual care, by my aunts, saved his life. They used a very small cup with a small funnel, filled with liquids, to ensure that his throat was kept moist and of course, endless loving care. I am thankful to write that he is still alive today.

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