91�ȱ�

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Three Counties Action on behalf of Geoff Webb and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

The A.R.P. headquarters were set up in a spare garage belonging to a local, well-respected family, whose home and extensive grounds bordered the far side of the Common. The ‘post’ at the ‘The Heath’ became a second home for Dad, Ray and Bert, for after putting in regular nightly duties, they left at five o’clock in the morning to go straight out on the rounds. Some of the more serious-minded wardens did things strictly according to the book, for when entering the ‘post’ to start their duty stint they came smartly to attention, and with rigid salute, shouted “Number one reporting for duty”. Many of the others ambled in with a casual, “evenin’ ‘Arry, evenin’ Tom,” approach. Each night three wardens, with a teenager acting as a ‘runner’ formed a duty squad, while bunk beds, a kettle and a pack of cards seemed to serve the other main requirements. As time slipped by regular card schools played halfpenny nap, or solo, into the early hours, with an off-duty warden, or possibly a ‘patrolling’ special constable, sitting in to make up the four. Another baker, not stuttering John, as it would have taken him too long to call, made up Dad and Bert’s quartet, and always brought a tray of iced cakes and meat pies to keep ‘runner’ Ron quiet, and fully occupied. Unfortunately, Ron used to suffer mental spasms which caused him to ‘star-gaze’ with upturned eyes, as if hypnotized. His daily job entailed riding around the village on a trades bicycle, delivering groceries for a shop in the High Street, but when his eyes started to ‘go’ in the middle of a run he became a hazard to himself, and to the public in general. Like the morning he ran into a wall of the disused gas-works when fully loaded, but getting up unhurt he was able to repack most of the scattered goods into his carrier, except the contents of a battered box of ‘Force’, broadcast far and wide. Apart from eating he displayed other talents on duty nights such as soldering. He went through a period when anything metal showing the slightest signs of being holed or cracked, soon felt the heat of Ron’s shaky soldering iron, and running out of casualties one night, he busied himself sticking darts into the kettle, so he could mend it.

With cooking facilities at a bare minimum, improvisation was essential to produce a meal of reasonable quality — and quantity. The solitary saucepan and kettle had all sorts of things cooked in them, in various ways. Such as the night Ray, also a ‘runner’ and his ‘crew’ decided to have poached eggs for supper. One at a time the eggs were lowered carefully into the boiling water, but the cooks stood baffled when they fused into a solid ball, with each person eventually receiving a cake-like wedge from the rubbery mass. Even war had its moments of light relief, which in most cases stemmed from an individuals conversation, or impulsive actions. It was a blustery January night when John, our stammering baker and warden, happened to be on a patrol during an alert. When from the inky blackness he heard someone approaching on a bicycle. Shining his torch, he barked “ ‘alt, who g…g…goes there, friend or f…f…foe? Getting no response, and by this time seeing the cyclist flash past, John threw his walking stick at the offender. Most times that stick would have sailed anywhere except near the target, but this particular night decided to jamb itself in the front wheel, throwing the rider in a somersault over his handlebars.
“I’ll give yer friend or foe if I git me ‘ands of yer,” bellowed the bleeding cyclist, scrambling to his feet, but John didn’t actually hear all the threat as he was in full flight before the unlucky rider hit the ground. Aided by half a gale blowing and a pitch-black night, john was able to shake off his pursuer, and thankfully collapse in a chair at the ‘post’.

The siren was fixed high in a tree shading the ARP headquarters so when ‘alert’ and ‘all clear’ signal came through, it was the duty warden’s job to switch on the wailing motor. Shortly after dark most evenings, an alarm was sounded to the throbbing engines of high flying enemy bombers, seeking objectives in the Midlands and further north. This same engine throb caused many a frightened glance between earthbound beings, and the inevitable question, “Is it one of ours?” In early war years it became a regular feature of a duty warden’s evening to walk across the lawn from his ‘post’ to stand outside the huge gates that opened on to the Common. From here he looked towards London, to see the night sky lit up by reflections of wind-fanned fires ravaging our capital. Like the aurora borealis the angry glow billowed and ebbed, a frightening epitaph to those thousands of brave cockney souls.

On the common near the gates was a seat, and each night after the alert was given, a man walked from Lybury Lane to sit out the raid until the ‘all clear’. Wardens passed comments on his regularity, for the huddled figure could be plainly seen in the moonlight. Whether he acted in this weird fashion for self-preservation or because he just wanted to be near some of the action, was never determined, but no matter what the weather he always turned up.

Ray joined up when I was still at school, after basic training he served in several parts of the European war zones. While fighting on the Italian front he made us very proud when being awarded the Military Medal for outstanding bravery. Later he was one of the fortunate few who managed to cross the Rhine safely in the retreat from Arnhem, and I shall never forget the excitement and relief on Dad’s face, or the tears trickling down Mum’s ruddy features, when a telegram arrived informing them of his safety. Just two weeks before we had stood opened mouthed outside the farm, as hundred of aeroplanes towing gliders passed over Redbourn; so obviously an invasion force — but for where? That fortnight of anxious waiting, together with hearing news bulletins giving facts of an unsuccessful mission, seemed like a lifetime.

With their kin risking life and limb on various war fronts, locals at first received German and Italian prisoners of war in their midst with some apprehension. When the first parties arrived on our farms to work side by side with our rustic old diehards, it seemed an almost unacceptable state of affairs. It was bad enough when young Land Army girls came to contribute their efforts to grow our food, but this latest move was tantamount to insanity as far as veteran farm workers were concerned. In time, of course, the three bodies leaned to co-operate with each other, with many of the new labourers proving extremely conscientious workers; even the doubters recognised this attribute in them. When Dad came home from making a teatime pick up one day, he was plainly fretful. “I don’t like the look of ‘im,” he said, referring to Kurt, a German prisoner who had started work there that morning. After he has helped with the milking for a month or two we got to know him quite well, his frequent wide smile revealing a huge mouth with gappy, gravestone teeth. Being well over six feet tall his cavernous mouth and bulbous eyes were quite in keeping with his massive frame, but he conversed quietly with a rich German accent when telling us he had served in a U boat: we couldn’t puzzle out how he managed to move about freely in such a confined space. One afternoon we saw the other side of this gentle giant’s personality when a spanner slipped from a tight nut, causing him to knock his knuckles, and with one sudden movement and a selection of Prussian swear words, he whipped it up to hurl it through the side of a stout boarded shed. Eventually marrying a farmer’s daughter, Kurt decided he would like to settle down to our way of life, and still lives in St. Albans.

There must have been something a little bit special about a village existence that appealed to these war time ‘immigrants’, for after hostilities ceased several evacuee families stayed here to spread their roots, and became a welcome cog in our small community. When one large family of brothers and sisters had been evacuated here for a few days, their eldest brother instructed them not to touch a drink called milk — it could kill them! The father of another household was a typical cockney character, but although partially crippled he seldom complained of his disability. I used to call at their home each day with milk, to find the milk money lying by unwashed empties on a table inside the back door. Just opposite, a line of rabbit hutches seeped rich-coloured juices, and like the empty bottles, they weren’t cleaned out as often as they should have been, so when the family’s Sunday breakfast included kippers, the stench was quite overpowering. Their landlord had to repair the kitchen floorboards after a short time — replace would be a more apt description, as they had been burned for kindling wood.

The old chap used to get talking to Bert in the shop, and one afternoon told him he had started shoe repairing, but found it difficult to acquire suitable leather. In order to mend soles and heels he asked Bert to bring home all the old harness we had at the farm. We managed to find him a few odd strands from worn saddles and collars , but I dread to think what the repairs looked like when finished. This occupation didn’t last long as it appeared more pairs of shoes were ruined than he repaired, and it was then he decided toy making would be an easier way to enhance his meagre income. Bert sensibly declined the wood-workers request for him to sell the toys in his shop, but the crafty old beggar somehow talked another shopkeeper into trying to retail such shoddy goods. Sketchily painted in gaudy colours the toys were compromised of crude, basic shapes, and in deedy tones he told Bert how orders were pouring in, often sounding like a Man from the Ministry when that very morning he received an order for two dozen destroyers, by next Wednesday. Of course, as the novelty wore off and the orders dropped off, our toymaker became very irritable with awkward customers, especially when they changed their minds. Stamping into Bert’s shop one day he angrily slammed on the counter a parcel he had been carrying under his arm, and ripping open the brown paper revealed, what could best be described as a block of wood on wheels. “look a’that, Bert,” he spluttered, catching is pipe. “I’ve gotta change that milk float into a bleedin’ battleship.” Although this old rascal and his wife passed peacefully away many years ago, their two sons still live in the village, one with a healthy brood.

Peace came to the world in two phases, the capitulation of Germany providing the first. During that week people laughed again, pinched faces mapped in lines of worry, were now wreathed in carefree smiles. Complete strangers shook hands or passed the time of day, and Union Jacks were brought down from attics and hung at windows, or draped along walls. Dad was one of a group of villagers who organised an afternoon of races and games for the children, on the outfield of our cricket ground. As if ordered, the sun shone on a scene of excited parents and youngsters, for everybody intended to relax and enjoy this very special occasion, and to give the day a touch of variety, a few races were run for mums and dads. In one of dad’s races each contestant was asked to remove his shoes, which were taken to the end of the course and shuffled into a heap. Racing to the pile each runner had to sort out and put on his shoes, but not until they were laced up he could return to the start. Taking part was a local cobbler who possessed one leg a good twelve inches shorter than the other, but on handing his odd shaped boots to an ‘official’ he laughed as loud as the rest at the ‘joke’.

Needless to say, the fair-natured cripple was left hopelessly behind all the rest, and his cause was not helped when the first man to reach the heap of shoes grabbed his enormous boot and hurled it thirty yards further on. Eventually the cobbler retrieved his footwear, but it took him 10 minutes to lace it up, and it was to much back slapping this good sport stumbled over the tape. Sitting on the grass, while wiping away his tears of laughter, he summed up everyone’s feelings on that memorable afternoon when whispering to Dad, “I ‘aven’t enjoyed anything like this for a long time, Martin.”

Phase two was VJ day, but it wasn’t received with such spontaneous celebrations, possibly because we had tasted the joys of peace already. Children welcomed an ‘extra’ Guy Fawkes night to build bonfires on the Common, and Union Jacks reappeared to mark another historic moment. Outside pubs in the high street people sang and danced, glad of another chance to let themselves go. That night, when word got round that a rocket had set fire to the thatched roof of the Chequers pub near the railway, I remember running through our back field to watch the blaze from a bridge nearby. Manfully firemen toiled to stem the inferno, but were left helpless as the roof suddenly caved in, erupting in a shower of sparks far into the night sky. It was sad to see the gutted shell next morning, but after feverish activity by competent builders new timbered building, with its new thatch, looked very smart.

Not long after this calamity Ray was demobbed, returning home to take over his milk rounds, so hurriedly left a few years earlier. With Ray back in harness, so to speak, we accepted the war was really over, and we could now settle down to a more tranquil existence.

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