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- Herausgeber: Ron Shears
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
Recollections of a childhood in Kent's "Bomb Alley" during WW2.
1940; WW2. The skies are full of British pilots battling foreign warplanes. In Kent's “Bomb Alley”, 5-year-old Ron Shears and his gang of “ragamuffin” friends laugh and play, oblivious as to the significance of the excitement in the skies. In this autobiographical account, Ron reminisces about the adventures and the horrors experienced during the era. Innocence and mischief abound, we'll join the boys as they search for war souvenirs; set off unexploded bullets; fashion DIY slingshots; play with fuses; get stuck exploring toppling house remains; chase one another in underground tunnels; crab fish amidst dangerous currents; race home-made carts (and buses!); sledge on washboards; get covered in dog poo daily and partake in the obligatory farting contests. Juxtaposed with the joyful memories are more sobering accounts of missing fathers; crashing pilots; impaled horses; villages blasted into craters; near-drowning incidents and insights into the lives of British pilots and the opposition.
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Seitenzahl: 163
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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Contents
BOMB ALLEY TO HELLFIRE CORNER
Recollections of a childhood in Kent's "Bomb Alley" during WW2
by Ron Shears
BOMB ALLEY TO HELLFIRE CORNER
The author and editor have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from memories.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any form or by any means without permission.
Copyright © 2018 Ron Shears
Published by Ron Shears
www.ronshears.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9871193-4-6
Edited by Michelle Goode of www.writesofluid.com
Book cover design by Michelle Goode
Dedicated to my team: Pat, Mark, Jane and Tim
Foreword
Friday September 1st, 1939: Germany invades Poland. World War 2 begins.
On September 3rd, 1939, Neville Chamberlain broadcast to the nation that Britain was at war with Germany. That night on the BBC Home Service at 6 p.m. radio announcer Alvar Liddell explained in more detail what was going to happen. This announcer became so familiar that the British people looked forward to his distinctive voice and his faultless delivery of these historic events.
"The German air force is to overcome the British air force with all means at its disposal, and as soon as possible," ordered Hitler; not the first to have fixed his gaze upon the White Cliffs of Dover and the green tranquil pastures beyond - but certainly one of the first by air.
On July 11th, 1940, the corpulent Luftwaffe C-in-C, Reichsmarschall Herman Wilhelm Goering, promised Adolf Hitler, "The defence of Southern England will last four days and the Royal Air Force four weeks. We can guarantee invasion for the Fuhrer within a month." There were many others further down the pecking order eager for recognition, leaving the path open for the Invasion of England.
And so the stage was set: the players in place and their mounts selected. Air Chief Marshall Sir Hugh Dowding - the appointed director - was pulled back from retirement by the Air Ministry and asked to remain for an 'unspecified time.' His second in command was Air Chief Marshal Sir Keith Rodney Park, a New Zealand soldier. Unknown to Dowding and Park, their volunteer cast and the audience, it would be the finest production ever. There were no scripts or rehearsals, and the ending was unknown. Only one of two conclusions would emerge: either the Royal Air Force would hold the island fort and give Britain time to re-group, or the Luftwaffe would back up their Commanding Officers' promise.
This collection of memories concerns my friends and I from the age of 5-12 and what we and our families endured during World War 2. We nippers had a ball as oblivious children and are no doubt all the better for it, but I do hope today's children never have to go through such an experience.
I was a nipper - just five years old - when The Battle of Britain began. We had the time of our lives playing outside, not realising what the wailing sirens really signified until years later. Now, as I recall those happy memories, the realities of the chaos that surrounded us and the dangers we evaded are a source of fascination. Home was Chatham, Kent, midway between London and Dover. It was aptly named 'Bomb Alley' on account of the first 4,585-lb. flying bomb exploding there in the early morning of June 13th, 1944. Bomb Alley was a sky-path from Dover to London. I remember dogfights and the nightly bombings as if they happened yesterday. Before the war finished, 1,388 V1 rockets had crashed all over Kent and a further 1000 plus, were shot onto the beaches along the 15-mile stretch of coast west of Dover to Lydd: thereafter named 'Hellfire Corner'.
This is the drama that unfolded for my young friends and I during Britain's darkest hour - the writing of which is my way of saying THANK YOU to all who fought for us and kept us safe.
Home Sweet Home
'If you hear the air raid Siren lay in the gutter, get under a hedge or knock on someone's door,' mother would holler out to me as I left to walk to the Ordnance Street primary school some fifteen minutes' away.
Home was a three-storey terraced Georgian house which is sadly no longer: demolished not by the bombings in the war but by in the sixties to make room for more houses, all Hills Terrace, Dale End, the lower part of Dale Street and Saunders Street. By the time new houses went up there would have been at least double, maybe treble the number. Our place, 19 Hills Terrace, Chatham, was the only one with a wooden spiral staircase and a bathroom as well as an outside loo. It was joined to the house and had a slate roof. So one didn't get wet usually; just very cold during the winter months. To stop the overhead cast-iron cistern freezing and splitting, the customary paraffin lamp was left alight behind the toilet bowl. It also had another, very distinct benefit - the smooth, sanded wood seat was warm. Toilet paper was an Izal flat-pack, left on a well-placed wooden shelf. Bear in mind most items were rationed and in short supply, so being the last in to find there was no Izal meant we had to resort to plan B: the daily newspaper; The Daily Express, cut into nice six inch squares, each pierced with a butcher's S-shaped hook and hung on the door by a piece of string. Strange thing was, it was softer than the standard Izal which felt and looked like grease-proof paper. You don't want me to elaborate on that, I'm sure!
I lived there with Gran, Granddad (Mark Scott, a foreman in the Gun Wharf), Mum, Uncle Fred, Uncle Len and Aunt June from mums' side. Gran's first husband Frederick Pennson Wells, a Royal Marine Sergeant PTI, was killed in WW1 while part of the catastrophic 'Live Bait Squadron'. Fred and my Mum were Wells and Len and June were Scotts'. Then there was Dad - a Quantity Surveyor who worked for the Air Ministry in London - younger sister Pat, Smudger the bulldog, Timmer the cat, a collie, a tortoise, half a dozen rabbits plus my weekly increasing litter of white mice.
I managed to get to a grand number of twenty-four before Gran hollered at me to "get rid of those mice". They did the job for me, escaping their temporary home, resulting in me becoming very unpopular with the neighbours. Next doors' cats began getting fatter. Trying to catch any survivors was risky: they were now in survival mode - ready to bite - and appeared to be adapting well.
Uncle Fred and Len were in the Royal Air Force, so they were away most of the time. Len was an armament fitter on Spitfires, Hurricanes and, when in North Africa, The US Airforce Mustang. Apart from loading ammunition, he reset the eight browning machine guns' cone of fire. This set the distance from the plane to where the bullets merged on an enemy opponent, usually one hundred yards. I discovered only a few years ago why the formidable Polish fighter pilots of 303 Squadron were so deadly; they closed on Luftwaffe planes at only fifty-yards - considered suicidal. These daring men were the highest scoring of the Hurricane squadrons during the Battle of Britain. They were stationed at RAF Northolt on August 2nd, 1940.
Len remembered when in Africa a USAF Mustang landed and taxied to where he worked out in the hot sun. The pilot had a woman on his lap in the cockpit - suitable name. He asked Len to reset his cone of fire, and rewarded him with a bottle of spirits. Trust the Americans. I believe Len was the youngest Flight Sergeant in the RAF.
Every day in London my father spent time organising materials to patch up damaged Airfields and a few days per week he stayed overnight in London. His night job was wading through London's sewers for bombs planted by German agents. He said the sewers were clean and rarely stunk. Presumably the Air Ministry did the laundry. Around 1941, he was posted to The Gambia in West Africa with several other officers. His commanding officer was Geoffrey Hanscomb; also a Quantity Surveyor. Sworn to secrecy, we had no idea what they were doing there but it was obviously something to do with the war. Possibly an airstrip, from where planes could give support to the formidable and brilliant German Field Marshall Erwin Rommel, known as The Desert Fox. I met Geoffrey several times, a very likeable man with boundless energy. He became the largest quantity surveying firm in the world, and began The London Group of project consultants who took on commissioned work from around the world.
Uncle Fred was in charge of getting and training German Shepard dogs for security work for the three forces plus government departments. Once trained, these dogs feared nothing and attacking a suspect on orders was something to witness, as I had the pleasure, and Fred taught me a great deal that I've never forgotten. Breeders contacted him at his Gloucester station when a new litter was ready for him to see. He'd travel as far as Scotland to find suitably-tempered dogs, plus the breeders would know what he wanted and gave him first refusal. He came home one weekend, took off his backpack and gently lifted out a black German Shepard puppy about three-months old. In those days pups were never taken before three months old. Fred admitted he was the biggest German Shephard he had ever seen, and now he was ours. He was the most beautiful specimen I ever saw. Smiling, Fred said, "This is Gale, fathered by Storm of Greenhillock in Scotland, a Crufts champion." Gale had a white diamond on his broad chest. I later watched Fred train him in the rear garden, with one or two command words. He taught me a great deal on how to train dogs; a fabulous experience for a youngster. Fred would stand at the end of the rear garden with his right forearm heavily wrapped around with sacking. Gale would sit near the kitchen door, ears straight up, tense and waiting for his master's instruction. If Fred shouted "speak" Gale stood erect and barked very loudly for a few seconds. "Seize!" and he went off like a rocket, leaping up at Fred's arm and shaking him. After about a minute, Fred would say "Leave" and Gale stopped immediately, but was still on guard. Fred would smiled and pat him, giving him a biscuit and saying "good boy."
Later, I realised just how much strength and tenacity a fully-grown German Shepherd has. It was time for me to take the reigns. Fred stood alongside me, and shouted, "Speak!" Gale braked just as loud as when Fred had called out. Then I held the lease, saying "Heel," if he walked too fasto make him slow. "Stay!" I'd say as I dropped the lease to the ground. Gale sat and waited as I walked away. At the length of the garden, I turned and called out "Gale" and he dashed toward me, stopping by my side and sitting down. "Good boy," I'd say, handing him a biscuit. I did this many times, until Gale obeyed my every instruction. Mind you, when I said "good boy" he'd inevitably knock me over and lick me as I lay on the ground, barking for more attention. I took him with my father, when he was home, onto our field twice a day.
If Gale's arrival wasn't enough for number 19, Fred had also lifted from his holdall a puppy Bull Terrier bitch. I don't know what my Gran thought, but I was elated, as I bent down and got licked to bits by Susie and Gale.
Just a few years later Gale went down with hardpad disease. His spine and legs ceased to function, and he had to be put down. We all cried unashamedly. I watched Fred train Susie as he did the RAF German Shepherd. After many months, even Fred realised Susie was a handful, and it was best her take her back to Gloucester where he gave her to one of his RAF trainers there.
I don't remember Uncle Len going to North Africa; only seeing him return for two weeks' leave to spend time with his girlfriend Pat Kennelly. His face and arms were dark brown and his hair bleached blonde under the strong African sun.
The house, just like us, was prepped for attack. Gummed brown tape was used to crisscross over the windows to help avoid shards of glass flying in during a bomb blast. The prospect of a Welsh slate sliding down three storeys was terrifying as it would kill anyone below, and slate roofs suffered from 'nail-sickness'. As slates moved in high winds, the two rusting nails holding each slate could make the holes larger and if the nail head wore away down they came!
Every room - there were two per floor - seemed large, but in fact it wasn't. The main room at the lower rear was where we all gathered, with a small kitchen behind that. Everyone fitted around a fairly large dining table pushed against the rear wall. Six chairs, plus two easy chairs. Gale slept under a high cupboard recess next to chimney breast; the lower doors removed.
Several mornings a week I'd walk or run to Ordnance Terrace where the Arnold family lived, in whose shop hung pieces of horse flesh, and I got a few pounds. If they didn't have any I'd get tripe; not for us, for Gale. The tripe stunk the house out when being cooked. I wonder if neighbours thought it was for us? Almost opposite the Arnold's shop lived the Spree family. Ken, the eldest chubby son became a great friend. In a later chapter I'll recall what happened when a land-mine dropped nearby.
There were two galvanised dustbins full of dog biscuits in the asbestos garage in the garden, which housed "Gert" - the highly polished, glistening black four-door Wolsey car with brown leather seats and the deadly wrist-snapping, thumb-dislocating starting handle. During winter another paraffin lamp rested under the engine preventing it from freezing up and keeping the engine block warm, just in case.
Separating the two back yards was six-foot high brick wall about twelve-feet long. Hanging on our side from nails driven in the brick-joints were several galvanised baths in various sizes for either washing clothes or bathing. The largest one was my bathtub on warm summer days. Always in attendance was Gale and Smudger peering in at me.
Despite everyone eating their evening meal at about six p.m., they tucked into a supper at nine; usually bread, cheese and Camp liquid coffee while listening to the BBC nine-o-clock news. Strange how one remembers the reader's name; Alva Liddell. His distinctive voice became synonymous with the reading of the news. Decades later when I had a roof tiling company I met him near Dartmouth where he wanted the roof replacing. His voice had not changed a bit, and he was a very pleasant man.
Gran always employed the help of Mr. Kingsnorth, a builder with a yard a few streets over towards Boundary Road. He made a super job of converting what was a chute for coal into the below-ground front room. We had a door, steps down and a drain at the bottom.
To reach the second storey entrance, you walked from the path up about six steps. Now these steps were scrubbed with a thick bristle scrubbing brush several times weekly. They were not concrete; a sort of limestone. I think the ladies tried to out shine their neighbours, because they'd be so clean you could well eat your dinner off it.
Air Raids and Blackouts
As part of my walk-to-school get-up, dangling around my neck was a piece of string attached to a six-inch cardboard box. Inside this was my black rubber gas mask. We knew how to slide into it and tighten the rubber strap in the event bombers dropped canisters that released a deadly gas.
Now, if a German Luftwaffe was about to drop bombs, lying the gutter or diving under a hedge was not that secure as you can imagine. Knocking on someone's door also had its problems. First, the noise of the sirens and the huge gunshots aimed at the bombers meant no-one in any house would even hear any knocking or heavy door thumping. Second, the inhabitants would be secure in an air raid shelter.
Every family had an air raid shelter shaped like an upside-down letter U that was sunk into your back garden and partially buried. Alternatively, you had a flat cage-like shelter about the size of a dining table (which many used it as). Everyone had a gas mask with its cardboard case, and a ration book. All us kids cared about, though, was the weekly 2 ounces of sweets allowed to every person. If there weren't many sweets on Mugridge's shop shelves, you could end up with 2 ounces of the same flavoured boiled sweets made by Sharps' Maidstone factory for the remainder of the war. There was, however, a bonus - we had the adults' 2 ounces also. So my sister June and myself shared 12 ounces a week. Uncles Len and Fred were in the RAF and therefore needed no ration books.
During an air raid at school either Mrs. Tarry or Miss Griffiths would quietly and quickly tell us to stop what we were doing, stand and line up at the classroom door. She'd check no one was hiding under a desk, open the door and out we went. We knew the drill, having done it many times. We hurried out the door and across the small playground towards the reinforced concrete flat-roofed shelter. Everyone would be chatting away; the boys staring above and bumping into the nippers in front, wondering what the Luftwaffes were sending this time. Generally, it'd be under thirty-minutes or less until we were given the 'all clear' and, under the guidance of teachers Mrs. Tarry and Miss. Griffiths, we'd trudge back to our classroom to either continue the disturbed subject or start another one. If it was the fifteen-minute playtime, we stayed in the playground. I don't know if all this disturbance affected our reading or maths and other subjects; at that time we didn't even think about it. A bomb or some other disaster was far more important. For most od us it was exciting, but for those frightened nippers Mrs Tarry and Miss Griffiths were always calm and offered a hand to cling to.
Out in the streets, however, it was just us and our childlike logic. So what did we do? Standing out of sight against a wall was a pretty good place to hide in case a Messerschmitt 109 fighter pilot decided to machine gun anyone unlucky enough to remain on the streets. Lucky for us, it was the ideal position to see the exciting action right above our heads - Spitfires versus Messerschmitt 109's each with speeds of three hundred and fifty miles an hour. Double this, and that's how fast they approached one another - machine guns and the 109's formidable canon at the blazing away. It was common knowledge the RAF pilots were outnumbered 4-1, so to remain they had to shoot down four German fighters just to remain even.
Germany failed to defeat and cripple the Royal Air Force in the Battle of Britain. So Hitler changed tactics - now his land invasion was cancelled. Instead, he chose sheer terror as his weapon. It was night time when 300 massed, in-formation German bombers crossed the English Channel over the Kent coast at Dover and Folkstone. They lined up in Bomb Alley and headed for London. "Blitzkrieg" (lightning war) had started.
It was the first of fifty-seven consecutive nights. On September 7 th, 1940, 337 tons of bombs struck the East London docks. It was another one of Hitler's blunders. He couldn't accept the will, spirit and courage of the British people. They would not surrender or run. Instead, they would fight. No matter what he chucked at them.
