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The Second World War in Littlehampton — through a child’s eyes.
In September 1939, Mum, Dad and I were in the Regent cinema at Littlehampton when the film was interrupted by a hand-written slide. All military reservists were to report immediately to their nearest barracks. In no time we’d gone home, Dad had packed a case and disappeared. He was working on the railway, but was still on reserve from the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, so away he went to Chichester barracks with hundreds of others. There they kicked their heels for a week or so until someone decided what to do with them.

The next morning the siren went off — the rising and falling wail indicating an imminent air attack — followed soon after by the “all clear”, a single continuous note. No bombers came.

On that day I was a couple of months short of my sixth birthday, and in no time at all everything changed. Morrison shelters, table-like structures of steel plate and mesh, appeared in the corridors of Elm Grove School.1, followed by more substantial ones of concrete (outside the corridor) and brick (surrounding the playground). At much the same time the huge windows (classrooms were glazed almost from floor to ceiling, with ridiculously big panes) were either covered with criss-cross tape, or painted with a gold-coloured plastic gelatine, in an attempt to reduce damage to young flesh.

The sea-front was mined and deeply barricaded with rolls of barbed wire. Artillery pieces pointing out to sea and sentries patrolled the promenade. Our only “beach” was the West side of the Arun, but it was little used until later in the war.

Air-raid warnings were frequent. We would troop out to the concrete shelters just outside the class-room, sneaking a brief peep at the activity overhead. Mum, my young brother and I lived on a corner opposite Littlehampton railway station, with Hollands undertakers to the West and South of us. Occasionally we’d see a dripping blanket-covered stretcher brought in, but happily the only corpse I ever saw was that of an airman who’d been picked up from the sea, and left to drain off in Holland’s yard.

Worse came as a result of “the day they did Ford”. We cowered in neighbour’s basement as the Luftwaffe hammered H.M.S. Peregrine. The many dead were brought to Hollands, who were temporarily overwhelmed. I lay awake to the sound of coffin-making (the coffin-shop was next to my bedroom). Days went by and our home filled with the stink of death, finally relieved when the “Sanitary Department” turfed us out and fumigated the flat.

In later years I learned the radar station at R.A.F. Poling simlarly, happily without loss of life — this was the day when a diminutive W.A.A.F. radar operator, Avis Hearn, stayed at her post while bombs rained down outside, and was awarded the Military Medal, one of only six won by female personnel in the entire war.2 Avis, only 4’10½” (1.486m) tall, was soon promoted to Flight Sergeant, and sent to a top training establishment — not bad for a girl whose mother once scolded “you’ll never amount to anything”. The last I heard, Avis, now Mrs. Parsons, was living in Rustington, and still in contact with friends in Poling village.

After the Battle of Britain, the Luftwaffe continued with small-scale raids. In Littlehampton, these were usually aimed at the railway goods-yard, ships in the river, or at Butlin’s amusement park by the pier, rumoured to be full of munitions. These aircraft, often fighter-bombers, flew in low, under the radar screen, and were known as “tip and run” raiders, after a form of cricket, where if you even snicked the ball, you had to run.

Boat-building at Littlehampton.
The West side of the river, mainly Hillyard’s and Osborne’s yards, produced motor-torpedo boats, air-sea rescue launches, and later in the war, landing-craft, typlically “LCTs” (Landing Craft, Tank). My first and only experience of “arc-eye”3, came from watching arc-welding across the river.

Air Raid (1).
One Sunday morning I was late for Sunday school - the siren sounded, so I didn’t go, and took shelter with my mother. The Congregational Church manse was flattened, the Rev. Hailstone and his wife were killed, and I’m told several children were injured by flying glass. Stranded in Terminus Road, a Mr. Richardson dragged his little daughter Alma into one of the shallow doorways of the Regent cinema. She complained that daddy had hurt her — later she was found to have a bullet-wound in the chest. She lived.
Air Raid (2).
A group of us were walking home from school when we heard one (or two?) loud explosions and the rattle of heavy machine guns, followed by the sound of a German fighter-bomber overhead. I flung my sweetheart to the ground and lay on top of her to protect here — on the exposed side of a wall! Soon afterward the air-raid warning sounded, but by then we were all quivering in fright in the end house in Cornwall Road. In later years I realised we’d been in little danger, as the aircraft was almost directly above us as he fired — but we didn’t know that then!

Air Raid (3).
The Squires family were evacuated South to get away Coventry, which had been virtually flattened. The two sons attended our school, and I was jealous of their Air Cub uniform, a “Sea Cub” of the 5th Littlehampton, wore a navy blue jumper. They attended our pack meets in their grey uniforms.
One Saturday morning I awoke to a remote “thump”, ,and my mother said “Oh, another dog’s trodden on a land-mine on West Beach”. When I went to collect our meagre meat ration from the butchers on the corner of Pier Road and New Road I saw that two cottages opposite the timber yard were a pile of rubble, and a man (I later learned, Mr. Squires) was tearing at it with his bare hands. Mrs. Squires and her two sons died.

Air Raid (4).
I recognised the sound of a V1 approaching, flying very low. Miss Slicer, our teacher, was a martinet, and I was more terrified of her than of the V1. Seconds after it passed over us, the siren sounded, and as we trooped out to the shelter I took a quick peep —straight down the tail-pipe of the bomb as it headed towards Arundel.

The Canadian Black Watch.
Over the war years, Littlehampton was host to numerous different units. Hare’s Garage (now the Flea Market) was home to Canadian and American Units, virtually all of South Terrace was requisitioned, and in the run-up to D-Day the common threatened to sing under the weight of military vehicles. One evening the Canadian Black Watch entertained us with a display of counter-marching, accompanied by their pipe band. Surrey Street was a small arena, and the fierce sound of their pipes and drums made it shake. Days later these huge, generous men were fighting their way ashore at Dieppe, and there was not a dark blue/green tartan kilt to be seen in Littlehampton.

Generous Americans.
We kids were always on the scrounge, and were quite often rewarded by an “empty” 7 lb tin of jam, with a good pound and a half left in the bottom. These men smoked several brands of cigarettes, but our favourite was “Sweet Caporals”, the back of whose packets always carried aircraft recognition pictures — a head-on view, a plan view, side view and a perspective view. We vied with each other for the latest pictures, but I don’t think any of us ever completed a set.

These same men put on a fantastic Christmas show for us at Christmas 1943 — conjurers, musicians, the lot, anything for the kids. Less than a year later, they would be dying in France, but memories of their warmth and generosity live on.

- and the sky filled with thunder.
One Thursday morning at about 06.30 I was walking down River Road to collect my “Knock Out” comic from the paper shop. The roar of aircraft engines stopped me in my tracks, and my jaw fell as hundreds of aeroplanes, each towing a Horsa glider, flew overhead, no more than 200’ above me. This was the first time I saw “D-Day Stripes”.4 I’ve never checked whether the 6th June 1944 was a Thursday, so to this day I still don’t know whether I was watching an early part of the invasion fleet or the first wave into Arnhem.

Peace at Last.
All this time we’d been watching the (highly-sanitised) reports in the newspapers, and the occasional (highly-sanitised) newsreel. Then the Allies (the good guys, Tommies,Yanks, Anzacs and all) over-ran Bergen-Belsen. Shortly afterward the Odeon showed a documentary about the discovery, voiced by war correspondent Richard Dimbleby. I lied about my age to get in — and wished I hadn’t.

In time my father and all my mother’s brothers came home to “civvy-street” without a scratch. Like their fathers who’d fought in 1914-18 they wanted at first to forget what they’d seen and done, and it is only in recent years that the quiet and dedicated work of ex-servicemen’s associations has risen to public prominence, and we see old men proudly wearing their medals in public in proud memory of their pals.

I bet there’s a neighbour or two who’s been astonished to learn that old Bert who delivered their milk for the last thirty years holds an M.M. and a D.S.M., or that Lily down the library was once a radar operator.

Random Memories.
Walking around with a gas-mask case. Going to an A.R.P. (Air Raid Precaustions) centre to have an additional filter taped on to my mask.

Seeing a sad child coming to school wearing a black diamond on his or her coat-sleeve, a mourning-badge for a father or elder brother or sister who wouldn’t be coming home.

Some boys boasted a “bit of German aeroplane”, typically a piece of aluminium with green paint on it, preferably bearing a bullet hole. Others collected (scrounged!) cap-badges, and I remember one or two who wore their collections on a broad leather belt.

Most of us had at least a couple of empty 0.303 cartridge cases, usually ejected from the machine guns of British fighters

David Langdon, a cartoonist, created several characters — his “Two Types”, jerseyed and moustachio’d army officers, popped up all over the place, but my favourite was “Billy Brown of London Town” a smart city gent with brolly and bowler.

Small posters showed Mr. Brown dealing out trite snippets of advice. For example, for blast protection, the side-window glass on all London buses was covered with a fine fabric safety-mesh, with a diamond-shaped viewing panel in the middle. People often peeled back a corner to look out, which defeated the purpose of the mesh.

Billy Brown: “I hope you’ll pardon my correction — that stuff is there for your protection”.
Pencilled graffito: “I thank you for your information — but I am looking for my destination”.

“Careless talk costs lives” was the thrust of other Langdon posters. Typical was one in which two city gents chat enthusiastically, while Adolf Hitler eavesdrops with an oversized ear.

John Grant.

1Now Littlehampton Community School.
2 The story of those raids, and of Avis Hearn’s courage, is told in full in “The Radar Warriors”, by Ron Hewlett.
3 This is the name welders use to describe damage to the retina as a result of exposure to ultra-violet light.
4 Broad white stripes painted on the mainplanes and fuselages of all Allied aircraft as a guard against “friendly fire”. Often they were still wet when the aircraft took off!

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