Watching the searchlight beams traversing the night skies, listening to the warning sirens, then the ‘all clear’. Picking up hot shrapnel, these were the normal pursuits of my childhood years. I have a clear memory of being one of a group of children standing in farmer Findlay’s field. We were mesmerised as we watched the vapour trails of the dogfights and heard the distant ‘rat-tat-tat’ of the machine guns firing. This would have been after the Battle of Britain as our outnumbered Spitfires and Hurricanes fought the locust-like hordes of Messerschmitts and Dorniers, twisting and turning in individual fights to the death. We watched a live action theatre taking place above us in the warm summer skies of rural England. Cries of jubilation came from the older kids. “It’s one of ours, one of ours,” they chorused as a victorious Spitfire roared over our little piece of a troubled world. It must have been the summer of 1942 and I was not quite four years old. And then the moment was gone.
“The war is over, the war is over,” I joined in with the other kids and adults who were shouting that out and dancing in the street. I shouted and whirled around too, although I didn’t really understand the significance of what this mass outbreak of happiness, shouting and dancing meant. Old Mrs Newton and Peggy, her large daughter, reserved but nice people, were out there dancing and hugging other neighbours. The O’Briens, Coxes, Critchers, Cadmores, Puddefoots, Mathews, our next door neighbours the Collins’s had all poured out of their houses after the official announcement on the radio. Then down the road to join us came the Philliskirks. Mrs. Philliskirk had great reason to be happy as her oldest son Georgie was a prisoner of war and now she knew for sure he would be coming home. Connie Beeston, her brother Wiggie and her mum were there. Mr. Beeston was a commando who had been on several raids. He came home after being wounded. As with all wounded men, once they were treated and restored to good health they were given some leave and then returned to their units. Their experience was too useful not to be used and so he was soon in the thick of it again and he took part in the Normandy landings.
We kids had plenty of local heroes to identify with. There were at least three prisoners of war from little Mill End alone and it was made up of only nine streets in those days. A friend of mine from Basing Rd, David Biggs, proudly told us about his Dad as we walked to school. He had been a prisoner of war who escaped and had crossed the Swiss Alps on foot on his long journey home. These were all people from my little world, centred on 35 Penn Road, Mill End. My Mum, my brother John and sisters Jean and Joyce, were all out there, dancing around with kind Auntie Grace who had come to live with us, while her husband, Uncle George, was on active service. I felt the glow of happiness springing from the adults that was so real and was so new to me. I was six years and eight months old at the time. It was a lovely day in May 1945. We had a Penn Road party. We had cake and drinks, even a few sweets. There were flags flying, streamers hung from house to house and bonfires blazed. We could leave the lights on at night. A grand outdoor dance was organised. How exciting it was to win a war, I thought. No more sleeping under the iron table, no more trips down to the damp air raid shelter at the bottom of the road, no more sitting outside watching the searchlight beams roaming the night sky. Great changes lay ahead.
“There he is, Mum, we can see him. It’s our Dad. He’s coming home from the war.”
This Information was coming from my brother John and my sisters. The older sister was Jean and at only eleven years of age she was already a fussing and caring little mum for us. Wartime circumstances had demanded that my Mum work and the burden of looking after us younger kids had fallen to Jean. She made life tolerable for us; she was always there and someone to turn to. My other sister, Joyce, was two years older than me. She was the one who missed our father the most. I was less than two when he left and I was too young to remember him, but I knew who the soldier was in the big framed photograph above the fireplace. We were crowded around the upstairs window, looking down Penn Road. I squeezed in; I could just get my head high enough to see over the window ledge. I didn’t really know what I was looking for, but I could see a soldier coming up the road. This was a dad, my Dad. I knew because of all the excitement and chatter from my older sisters.
Dad was only of average height, but to me at seven years of age, this tanned man with his army uniform, his greatcoat and army holdall was a giant. Two of the boys I went to school with had a dad at home, but most of them were like me, their fathers were away in the war; so us younger ones had never experienced having a dad. He had volunteered for the army in 1940. He always said that they all knew it was coming and that the call up would eventually reach his age group. He wouldn’t have had to go, as he was in what was a reserved occupation, but as a volunteer, he would receive higher pay and I am sure he took that into account. He was very English in his ways and as patriotic as the next man. At that stage he had four kids and I suppose he was concerned for their future. Both his older brothers had fought in the First World War. Jack the elder of them, with great distinction. The younger one, Bert, who had falsified his age to join up, was a Royal marine. He was in action in Russia in support of the Tsar in the early days of the Bolshevik Revolution. He again saw action in the Second World War being assigned as a Royal Marine Gunner on an armed Merchantman. I think they heavily influenced Dad. He may have felt that it was his turn now to answer the call, as his siblings had done before him. These were certainly amongst the reasons that had influenced him to leave his wife and young family and go to war much earlier than he needed to.