ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

Its only fireworks said my Grandmother, as she covered me in a Devon hedge bank with her body. Although mainly covered I could still see around her long coat, and across the road was a small army truck, where the driver a lady in the ATS sheltered between the opposite hedge bank and her truck. Overhead there was loud banging from the anti aircraft gun, which was situated on the Berry, the highest point in Salcombe, a small coastal town in South Devon. The year was 1943, and this was to be one of the last air attacks I was to experience, there had been others, and I was not quite six years of age. This attack usually undertaken by two or three enemy aircraft, was known at this stage of the war as ‘Tip and Run’ bombing raids, and it was probably one of the last on small towns and villages in South West England.

I was only just over two when war was declared, and I can remember even at that early age, of a day when all the adults in the family were very serious. Neighbours came and sat in out sitting room with serious looks on their faces. Although not aware of the matter being discussed I knew it was serious. Although this event is clear in my mind, I often wonder if this was the day war was declared. My Father had three younger brothers all unmarried, and one by one they received their orders to enlist in the armed forces. I was particularly sorry when my Uncle Francis enlisted as he had a motor bike, and often gave me rides on the petrol tank of his motor bike. My Father being 34, did not enlist until December 1940, and it was at that time that my life changed. My Sister Dulcie, had won a scholarship to a boarding school at nearby Totnes, and only came home at weekends. My Mother decided to take on my Fathers insurance round, until he returned from service in the Royal Artillery. It was agreed ( I had no say in it of course), that I would live with my Grandmother at nearby Salcombe, from Sunday until Friday, and there I remained for five years until the end of the war. Even though I was only three and a half, I travelled home on Fridays alone on the bus, and was at first met by my Mother, for the three quarters of a mile walk to our home in the village of South Milton. After a while she would meet me part way, and it was not long before I undertook this journey alone. Sundays Gran came to our house for lunch, and we both travelled together on the bus back to Salcombe. At the end of May 1941, I alighted from the bus, and as I began to walk down the lane towards the village, a large tree trunk had been placed across the road to prevent vehicles from entering the village. I walked under the tree trunk, and half way to my home, I noticed there was a lot of mud on the road, and in the nearby apple orchard was a massive hole surrounded with banks of earth. The hedge bank almost opposite to my home appeared to have fallen into the road, and the corrugated iron roof on the nearby farm barn had been twisted in an upward position. Furthermore there was damage to the roof of our house. What had caused these happenings, our small village (population around 400), had suffered an air raid, fortunately there were no casualties. Five bombs had been dropped, two had exploded, two had been defused, and the fifth had not been found. Saturday morning the search was on for the fifth bomb, and bomb disposal engineers were digging at the lower end of our orchard. They eventually located the bomb, but due to the soft ground, it was beside a stream, and very marshy, they were unable to reach the bomb. The more they excavated, the more the hole filled with water. Eventually the engineers decided to leave the bomb, firstly because it should have exploded shortly after impact, and secondly if it did explode it would cause no damage, as it was so deep in marshy ground. Today almost 65 years later, it is still there. The bombs had been dropped from a bomber which had been unable to reach Plymouth, and had the bombs not been released, the plane would have had insufficient fuel to return to its base in France.

My school life began when I was three and a half, my school was situated in a room of a private house, in which two retired school teachers were living. They were the Misses Godden, two sisters who were spinsters, and wanted to do their bit for the war effort by opening a school. The other school in Salcombe was occupied to capacity, because of the evacuees in the town and other early starters like me. At our little school we had one classroom, which was dominated by a large iron table, known as a Morrison Shelter. We would sit around this large table to do our school work, and when the air raid siren was sounded, one of the Miss Goddens would sing ‘Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit, Run Run’ and we would sit under this large table, on what seemed soft mattresses. I recall that once inside, a steel grill was placed on the sides of the shelter by one of the teachers. I do not think they ever took shelter themselves.

As the war progressed the United States Navy arrived, and at first occupied all the hotels in Salcombe. Later they built a hutted camp on what was and still is the rugby ground, and another camp on the other side of the road.
Like most kids at the time, we were always playing around the entrance to the camp, asking the US sailors for gum or candy. On one occasion I fell over and cut my knee which was bleeding badly, the guard outside the camp took my friend and I to the sick bay, where my wound was dressed. We were then taken for food in their canteen. What food! as one who could not remember food before the war, such food for a young boy was fantastic, we were also given a wonderful drink called pineapple juice, I had never tasted anything so delicious. Later other boys joined us, and it was a regular event most afternoons, tea with the Yanks, no food rationing there. Where we were eating was known as the White Camp, and the other camp across the road, was known as the Black Camp, where the non-white sailors were based. Often we would go to this camp for another meal, the meal time for non-white sailors was later, as many of them were cooks for the other camp.

One event which is significant in World War 2 history took place during the night before my 7th birthday, on the 3rd June 1944. I have no idea at what time of night my Grandmother called me from my bed, to see a most remarkable sight. The harbour which we could see from our bedroom, was full of red, green, and white lights, all moving. This was one of the first stages of the D Day operation, where many south coast harbours were packed with ships and landing craft. The next day we went down to the harbour, and the ships were anchored at least three abreast, from the harbour entrance, to as high in the harbour as it was safe to anchor. The ships were packed with army lorries and soldiers, who were not allowed ashore. I recall them waving and shouting messages to those on the shore. Having in recent years visited Utah Beach in Normandy, where they eventually landed, I wonder how many of those waving and shouting lost their lives.

All through the war, Dad who was in the Eighth Army wrote home, first from North Africa, and then Italy Occasionally there was a letter for me, usually an air graph, or aerogramme (see attached illustration). When I replied, Gran or Mum would draw lines on the air graph paper for me to write to him, it would have to be large print, as the letter was greatly reduced in size during transmission.

Eventually May 1945 arrived, and the war with Germany was over. What an exciting day for our little village. I was almost eight years of age, and everyone in the village seemed to be displaying flags, I found some small Union Jacks (perhaps left over from the 1937 Coronation), and placed them into holes in the stone wall surrounding our house. In the evening there was what seemed to me a gigantic bonfire, in the Pathfields overlooking our village. No fireworks, no barbecue, just a bonfire, but everyone was happy.
I can still recall the happiness I felt on that evening, the war was over, and Dad would come home after five years. Today I as I reflect on my happiness in May 1945, I find it hard to imagine what eight year old boys, and girls had to endure in parts of Germany, and Eastern Europe at that time. Children did not, and do not ask for a war, no matter what age or in which nation they live.

The remaining Yanks would soon be gone, to be replaced by German and Italian Prisoners of War. Dad would be home in November, in time for Christmas 1945, and I would no longer be living with Gran, she was a most wonderful person to have known, and be with during the war years.
I really missed her when it was time to return home. It was over, and somehow the whole war had been an exciting period, for one little village boy growing-up in rural Devon.

Owen Masters 9th January 2006
DevonBoy

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.