ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝

WW2 lasted over five years. This is an account of a few of the experiences of a boy who grew into a man during that time.

A child at War

It was Sunday morning in September, 1939. My Mum and Dad were unusually quiet. Chamberlain had just been on the “wireless”. In a very posh voice he told us that “We are at war with Germany”. I was nearly 14 and the idea of war was very exciting. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to go to school. Some of my first school mates had already started work but I would have to stay until I was at least 16.

Sunday was a “Day of Rest” so we were not allowed out to play. We had to dress up in our “Sunday Best” clothes and go to Sunday School. The Sunday Roast was something to look forward to. Suet pudding was my favourite. Suet and flour were mixed to dough and then wrapped in a cloth so that it resembled a very big sausage. After boiling gently on the range for an hour or so, it was unwrapped and cut into round slices. When soaked in beef gravy it was delicious. Mum always made it big enough to have another slice covered with butter and brown sugar as “seconds”.

That Sunday morning Dad took us to Hop Farm, Paddock Wood where trainloads of Londoners were enjoying their annual four-week “country holiday”. Picking hops paid all their expenses. They lived in Hopper-huts, which they often lined with wallpaper. They cooked their meals over campfires.

The farthest most village children travelled from their homes was about 5 miles to the nearest town so this influx of “foreigners” was something worth seeing. As we approached the farm, a very loud wailing noise was heard. Up and down it went, and everyone stood still and looked up at the sky. Later we learned that someone had spotted an aeroplane over the coast at Dover and had pressed the “Air Raid Warning” button. I was certain that the Germans had started the war already and were coming to bomb us. We knew about the Italians bombing Abyssians with mustard gas and we hadn’t got our gas masks with us. No one else seemed particularly bothered though. We could see nothing so we resumed our walk. Later the sirens sounded another blast but this time it didn’t wail so that meant “All Clear”. It had all been a mistake.

Back home over dinner there was talk of building an “Air raid shelter” and we children wanted to start digging immediately. A big hole in the ground where we could eat and sleep sounded very exciting. No more sirens sounded that winter but we made a start the hole. We soon tired of all the heavy digging and Dad was left to do it on his own. “Anderson Shelters” were made of curved corrugated steel panels bolted together. They were much stronger and easier to erect but rural families had to buy them. In any case one wouldn’t have been big enough for our large family. When the hole was deep enough, Dad laid heavy lengths of wood over the top and covered them with soil and turf. It was very dark and smelly underground but we couldn’t wait to sleep in it. During that winter, it rained heavily so that the hole started to fill with water so our Wellingtons were lined up at the back door should the sirens sound.

Nothing much happened during the next eight months and I began to wonder what all the fuss was about. Being at war wasn’t any different to not being at war. I still had to go to school, do homework, sit exams. Occasionally the siren would sound and we had to sit in the school’s air-raid shelters but it wasn’t fun anymore. All streetlights in towns had been turned off but we hadn’t got any in the country so we were used to moving about after dark. I painted the back mudguard of my bicycle white and fitted a hood over my cycle lamp so that any marauding German pilots wouldn’t see me cycling home from school and drop a bomb on me. Sweets were now rationed but we only had one pennyworth a week before so there was no difference there. Food became scarce but my mother must have been a really good cook because I cannot remember ever being hungry.

There was a little excitement in June 1940, when trainloads of dishevelled soldiers arrived from Dunkirk to live in the empty hopper-huts. My Mum made sandwiches and tea for them using our meagre rations but no one complained. Air-raid Wardens became much more bossy and old men joined the ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝ Guard to set up roadblocks to check that everyone carried their Identity Card. Even when they recognized you they would make you go home to get the card you had forgotten. What a terrible bore this war was.

A Youth at War

On Sunday, 15th September 1940, I was sitting on my bicycle gazing up at the bluish sky. It was covered in vapour trails, which were not unusual. I was quite unfazed, as we had all grown accustomed to the daily dogfights above our heads. This was the fourth raid that day. R.A.F. Spitfires would whine as they dived down on the German Messerschmitt 109s fighters the cannons in their wings chattering menacingly. As one whine grew to a crescendo another would die away.

The slower Dornier and Junkers bombers far overhead would keep to their close “V” formations to help protect themselves from the marauding Hurricanes. Hurricanes had a more stable gun platform than the Spitfire so they were more effective attacking the slower planes. The Spitfire was the more maneuverable and so was a better match for the Me109s. The Luftwaffe bombers, with the unmistakable throbbing of their unsynchronised engines, were not much more than dots in the sky and as they made their way to our airfields and still secret radar stations. They were little threat to the villages below. Hitler had not yet ordered the indiscriminate bombing of civilians. Little did we realise as we walked to Church or cooked our Sunday dinner that the day would go down in history as “Our Finest Hour”.

The crick in my neck was gradually becoming more acute. You can only watch dogfights for so long before interest wanes. I was now a ĂŰŃż´«Ă˝ Guard and my training allowed me to recognise a Dornier 17 bomber, also called a “flying pencil” directly overhead. Most of its pencil-like tail had been shot way and it was floating down like an autumn leaf. As it swung gently from side to side, three airmen jumped out and their unopened parachutes streamed behind them. I felt sure the plane was going to crash in the nearby Rose and Crown cricket field. Without bothering to think that it might be still be loaded with 2000lbs of bombs that could explode on impact, I shot off on my bicycle towards its probable landing site. My estimated was wildly inaccurate because it finally came to rest in a field two miles away.

I was still one of the first to arrive and was given what was possibly a small bomb rack by another looter before Tug Wilson, the village policeman arrived puffing on his bike and ordered everyone away. The airmen’s bodies were found in the surrounding fields. This was the day that the R.A.F. lost 36 aircraft and 10 pilots. The Luftwaffe had lost 79 aircraft and 142 airmen. The losses were wildly exaggerated at the time such was the frenetic fighting above our heads.

In November we were gathered around the radio listening to “Henry Hall” on the radio. At about 10 o’clock we heard the sound of a very low flying aeroplane. Almost at once there was a very loud whistling scream increasing to a crescendo and then a huge explosion. Our electric light went out and the only sound was the radio still playing dance music. All wirelesses were battery powered. My mother had been making hot cocoa but when she lit a candle to see what damage had been done, all the cocoa had been sucked out of the cups. Outside, the Air Raid Wardens were already on the scene shouting “Gas! Put that cigarette out.” That was a relief. It was only a burst gas main. No need to hunt for gas masks. The 500lb bomb had been so close to our house that most of the force had gone upwards causing a semi vacuum in the air sucking out the window glass of some windows but little other damage. We went to bed as usual. In the morning there was a scream from the boys’ bedroom. Above one bed was a huge piece of the road precariously lodged in the ceiling rafters. Outside now could be seen the extent of the damage. The whole road was now a huge crater filling with water from the broken water main. Within a week, everything had been repaired and we were able to sleep in our own beds once again. It was believed that the pilot had jettisoned his bomb load either because his plane had been damaged or because he couldn’t face the London flak.

A man at War

In 1943, I was called up to join the Irish Guards. After training as a Sherman tank Driver/Wireless Operator, I found myself in France. One day the Germans were shelling us. I was sitting safely in the tank fully battened down. The shells exploded above us sending ball bearings whistling through the air in all directions. I listened to them rattling against our armoured sides. One tank commander had been a bit slow in closing down his hatch and one of the balls went down through the open hatch and into the wireless operator’s leg, blood spurting everywhere. I bet that casualty was smiling as he was lifted out. What a bit of luck. Everyday I hoped for a wound like that. Being taken to hospital and sleeping in clean white sheets would be like going to Heaven.

My radio crackled into my earphones. “Calling Ballymore. Wireless operator report to Castlemain”. My heart stopped. That’s us - Ballymore! I was being told to get out of the safety of the tank and run across the open field to take the place of the wounded Wireless operator. I pretended not to hear. I switched the radio over to another band. A flying ball bearing might not hit me in the leg but somewhere much more serious. But I had to go because our commander had also heard the order.

Like a frightened rabbit I tore across the field and almost fell into the tank. The previous occupant’s blood still lay in a wet pool on the steel floor. Worse luck was to follow. This tank had been assigned to lead the advance for that day. They always chose an old tank, which was past its sell-by date and this was a really old one with a worn out gun. If anyone was going to cook today, it was going to be us.

More orders on the radio. Drive off into a forest. Should be reasonably safe there. The only open space was along a railway line. Our tracks straddled the rails and we bumped along at 20mph. We tried to turn off down a farm track but our driver just couldn’t get off the line no matter how hard he pulled on the tiller. We were stuck like a train except our tracks were each side of the railway line. The driver stopped. If any German gun had us in his sights he now had a sitting duck. He couldn’t miss. I looked at the high explosive shells stack all around me. There were at least another fifty under the floor. If it were my turn to be in a “Tommy cooker” as the Germans called our tanks, I wouldn’t know much about it. The driver reversed and suddenly we were free and racing down the farm track. I watched our progress through my periscope. Open fields ahead. Another Big Danger! Driving very slowly to the edge of the forest, the gunner shouted, “There’s a Tiger by that farmhouse” Even if we had a good gun, our armour-piercing shells would only bounce off the Tiger. He would know that he was perfectly safe and could take his time to make a perfect shot.

I opened the gun’s breach. Took out the high explosive shell and loaded an Armoured Piercing shell knowing full well that it was like putting a pea into a peashooter for all the damage it would do. “Shall I fire” the gunner shouted. “Hang on a minute” replied the commander. “Are you sure it’s a Tiger?” Bang! Our 40ton tank jerked backwards. The engine was still running and the commander was screaming “Reverse, reverse”. The driver shouted back, “I’m trying. It won’t move”. There was another huge bang and the turret filled with sparks. Another shell had gone right through our turret, through my radio and out of the back. That was 9 inches of solid steel.

“I’m out of here”, shouted the driver and I could see him and his mate through the grill climbing out. The gunner was still asking plaintively, “Shall I fire?” Without saying anything, the commander suddenly decided to bale out as well. I watched his legs disappear out of the hatch. When the gun was lowered, there was just enough room for the Wireless Operator to squeeze under the breach mechanism. When it was raised, he was trapped. The last shell had welded the gun to the turret preventing any further movement. By this time the gunner too was climbing. Somehow I squeezed through a few centimetres of space under the gun and crouched on the floor to await my turn to climb out of the turret.

The gunner didn’t seem to want to move though. “Hurry up!” I shouted expecting at any moment to be enveloped in flames and exploding shells stored all around me. A drop of bright pink blood dripped from his overalls. The gunner wouldn’t move any more because he was dead. The last shell had hit him in the face.

I climbed over what was left of his body trying not to look at the mass of gore, which used to be a head and chest. I stood for what seemed an eternity on the top of the tank preparing to jump the 10 feet to the ground. Under normal circumstances such a jump would almost certainly result in a broken leg. I could feel imaginary machine gun bullets tearing through my back. I jumped. Nearby lay the top of gunner’s head his thick black curly hair now straight and bloody. I ran to the nearby farm building and lay on some straw, absolutely paralyzed with fear.

Our accompanying Infantry also sought shelter in the farm building. One came over, saw me and said, “What shall we do with him Sarge?” “He’s past help. Looks as if the top of his head has been blown off. Just leave him”. “They are going to counter attack Sarge". Let’s get out of here fast”. They all left for the safety of the forest.

Alone, I gradually recovered but not before night had fallen. What did they mean – the top of my head had been blown off?” I touched my scalp gingerly. It was wet, slippery and cold. I looked at my fingers. They were covered in something dark. And yet it didn’t hurt. With my pistol in my hand, I ventured out into the night. Which way to go? I chose the road rather than the forest. God knows what wild animals might be lurking in there. Was I walking towards the enemy or towards friends? I didn’t care any longer. I walked for ages, in the darkness and all alone. An English voice called out, “Halt! Who goes there?” “It’s only me” I replied weakly.

My legs turned to jelly and I stumbled. A friendly arm guided me into a building. A sergeant looked at me and said, “He’s wounded, get an ambulance.” Wounded? I didn’t hurt anywhere. They were all looking at the top of my head. “Don’t touch his beret”, a medical orderly instructed. “Looks as if the top of his head has been smashed in.” Later, when the doctor eased off my beret, he uncovered my undamaged head. The gore wasn’t mine. It must have fallen on my beret when the gunner had been killed. So no hospital and clean white sheets for me.

I attended an inquiry the next day and three days later was sent back to join another tank crew. I never saw the crew who had abandoned me again. Would this war never end? Would I be so lucky next time? I was still only 19 and didn’t want to be a soldier any more. I just wanted to go home.

The war ended on Tuesday 8th May 1945 but not for me. I had another two years’ garrison duty before I was finally released.