Farming, Fighting and Family

by Miranda McCormick

  Hopefully this was not the case on the evenings when ENSA became the umbrella for a new panel discussion programme, The Brains Trust, the precursor to the long-running series Any Questions? The format was the same as today’s, with a group of pundits led by a chairman taking topical questions from the audience, in this case made up of Allied troops on Salisbury Plain. By dint of his agricultural expertise, Arthur Street became a regular Brains Trust panellist, and after the war would continue to perform on Any Questions? until shortly before his death. These subsequent broadcasts were mainly from the West Country, but back in 1942 he was in demand on ENSA Brains Trust panels not just on his home territory but in all parts of the British Isles, as Pamela’s entry for 11 July makes clear: ‘Pop went to London & then on to Scotland for the week’s Ensa Brains Trust. Lucky thing – sounds wonderful. Very tiring I expect though.’ This last comment proved prescient; Arthur Street was once again overdoing things, which would soon have serious consequences.

  In the days before the introduction of combine harvesters, harvesting was a long, labour-intensive process. First, corn was cut and bound into sheaves by a reaper-binder, the resulting sheaves requiring manual stooking in order for the corn with its precious seed-heads to dry in the field before being threshed. Threshing was another labour-intensive business, with the sheaves being manually pitched into the threshing machine for the seed to be separated from the stalks and bagged into sacks to be carted back to the farm buildings to await sale, whilst the straw remaining in the field had to be baled. Finally, since a certain amount was inevitably lost on the ground during the harvesting process, fields needed to be raked to gather up the loose straw with corn-heads still attached. Only then could arable land be ploughed up and sown to seed for the whole process to begin again for the following year.

  Although combine harvesters began to be introduced in the late 1930s and early 1940s, they were few and far between; the vast majority of arable crops in the British Isles were still being harvested by the reaper-binder/thresher method. In early 1942 Ditchampton Farm had acquired a new threshing drum which Arthur Street was keen to put to the test. This still meant, however, that Ditchampton Farm was heavily dependent on outside labour. At the beginning of August at Ditchampton Farm such labour seemed plentiful, and harvest progressed smoothly, or to use one of Arthur’s favourite Wiltshire expressions, ‘suently’. On 7 August he recorded on an upbeat note in Hitler’s Whistle:

  This season harvest labour seems to be much easier to come by. All sorts of people volunteer, just as they did when Napoleon threatened invasion. In fact it seems that history is repeating itself, and that once again the harvest is not merely a farmer’s harvest but a national one. I have a team of twelve good schoolboys, who already have done stooking, threshing, and flax pulling. In addition local policemen have lent a hand in their off-duty periods, and in the long evenings the local roadmen and soldiers take the place of the boys …

  The employment of schoolchildren to help with the harvest was a current matter of controversy. Again in Hitler’s Whistle Arthur wrote about a lively discussion he had had with an acquaintance who was against the practice, particularly during term-time, though Arthur Street clearly had no such qualms:

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘It’s all wrong to deny education to little children just to make profits for private individuals. It’s a retrograde step, it’s an attempt to put back the clock.’

  ‘Listen’, I said. ‘The clock of history is being put back all right, but by Fascist dictators not by British farmers. And one small thing that will help to set the clock moving forward once again is the maximum production of food here in this island. Schoolchildren not only can but should help in that, in order that the clock may be set going forward again as quickly as possible. If the nation is beaten by starvation what will happen to those children?’

  On that score I cannot see any valid objection to schoolchildren doing what they can to help food production this summer and for as long as the war lasts. Neither does there seem to be any objection by the educational authorities to their doing this during holidays. It is when farming wants their services during term-time that the difficulties arise. The educationalist argues that this upsets the school time-table. Agreed, but what time-table has not been upset by Hitler & Co? Goodness knows the British farmer’s has been turned upside-down.

  Today we tend to think of vandalism as a comparatively modern phenomenon, but it seems it has always existed. Whilst schoolchildren clearly could and did have their uses during the Second World War, they could also have a severely detrimental effect on the farming process, as Arthur Street laments elsewhere in Hitler’s Whistle:

  I want to mention something that is causing serious trouble in the countryside, and for which there seems no workable remedy. This is the great increase in trespassing damage by people of all ages, and a tremendous increase in wanton damage and mischief by children. And I don’t mean town children or evacuees, but homebred village children.

  This sort of thing. Hayrick left one evening nicely tucked and topped up ready for the thatcher. Unwisely the ladder was left there, so children climbed up and pitched off a lot of hay to the ground, and burrowed a large hole in the roof. A tractor in the field started up by boys and driven into fence, with considerable damage to both fence and machine. Paraffin tap of tractor turned on and tank emptied. Paths made through standing corn and so on …

  Arthur Street goes on to make it abundantly clear who he considers is to blame, and suggests a remedy:

  No one can control children out of school hours save their parents, and on them should fall the responsibility of damage done by children … If William Smith had to pay a fine of a pound for one of little Tommy Smith’s escapades, he would see to it that little Tommy thought twice before transgressing again. And how!

  Whilst the harvest at Ditchampton Farm started well, before long it was once again being hampered by bad, or to use another favourite expression of Arthur Street’s, ‘caddling’ weather. Soon the farm’s workforce was seriously behind schedule, and more outside help was required. Besides this, however, Arthur now found himself facing a challenge of an even greater kind. On top of his nervous illness in the spring – from which, judging from Pamela’s diary entries, he had still not fully recovered – the effort of travelling continuously all over the country seemed to have taken its toll. Pamela’s diary entry for 31 August is particularly grim:

  Pop is in bed with a bad leg. I should have made him go to the doc because I thought it was serious – flebitis [sic]. The weather is awful & the harvesting going on in fits & starts – the war continues – Russia hanging out but on the defensive of course. Egypt about the same but better in the Far East but oh the strain …

  At the end of Hitler’s Whistle Arthur elaborates on his illness and the frustrating consequences. He had recently returned from a trip to Scotland and had negotiated a month off from the BBC to see in the harvest of 1942, but the fates were to decree otherwise:

  Alas! Next day curious pains developed in my left thigh, but I put off seeing the doctor until three days ago. He then sent me to bed with orders not to put foot to ground. Apparently, phlebitis cannot be ignored, and rest is the only cure. The sentence is a month probable, and three months if I don’t obey all prison rules. So that was that. I laid on my back, looked at the rain, and cursed my luck. Also I had bedroom conferences with my foreman …

  This is going to be the hardest harvest for me that I have ever known. Charlie, my foreman, will not have an easy time; for, after each long day of work and worry with all sorts of amateur harvesters, he will have to report to me, here in bed. He has my deepest sympathy.

  Watching from his sickbed as the rain trickled down the window panes, and fretting over the lack of progress with the harvest, Arthur’s thoughts began to turn to his own father, who towards the end of his life was bedridden with arthritis, yet still managed to remain in charge of Ditchampton Farm. Arthur began to wonder what, in his place, Henr
y Street might have done to expedite matters:

  Somehow I found myself with much more sympathy for that irascible Victorian than I had in days of my youth. What was it we used to call him in those days? Ah, the organiser. But experience had since taught me that he was always a good man to copy. All right! I would do some organising.

  Somehow the stacking speed should be doubled. To do this would require not only more men, but also more vehicles, as all mine were in use. I grabbed the telephone by my bed and rang up the army. Were there any means whereby so many lorries, drivers and men could be hired to go harvesting on the morrow if the weather held fine? There were and in half-an-hour they would ring me back; and before I finished a cigarette the necessary information was forthcoming, and also a definite promise of a balanced team of men and vehicles for the next day … Father wasn’t the only farm organiser from a bed. And how pleased with his son he would have been!

  Pamela put in a request for compassionate leave, which was quickly granted, to help on the farm while her father was incapacitated.

  She recorded that for the remainder of the harvest a new team from the army came each week to lend a vital hand:

  September 9th Barley carting – Six ricks now – terrific. Quite a lot of volunteers from the Signals. All the M.D.O. men.

  September 16th Threshing still up at Wishford Arch. Soldiers etc come every morning from 3 Command signals – good team this week.

  Despite the army’s presence, there were inevitably odd days when nothing seemed to go according to plan. Pamela described one such day, including a mention of the kind of damage done by children to which Arthur Street had earlier referred in Hitler’s Whistle:

  September 21st Day of days. Nearly a hundred sacks got wet and we had to shoot the lot – Gale kept saying ‘terrible show, Miss’ which was infuriating. Finally we got the lot off by 7 o’clock with a rescued truck from the station. Thank goodness that’s over but to crown everything Milner’s rick caught fire this evening due to children and they broke our scales yesterday too … the juvenile way of going on is truly awful but the parents are to blame …

  For the most part relations between the disparate elements of Ditchampton Farm’s harvest workforce were harmonious, but it seems that two regular hands were not seeing eye to eye: ‘September 18th Everyone works quite well really except Lodge and Gale have arguments, but Wilfred is sweet & the soldiers have been v. good this week…’ The disagreement between the aforementioned ‘Lodge’ and ‘Gale’ to which Pamela referred must have been serious. This type of behaviour between farm staff was something that Arthur Street would not tolerate, and he would have made it his business to investigate the matter and assert his authority. It therefore comes as no great surprise to read in Pamela’s diary for 25 September: ‘He has given Gale the sack.’ At least Arthur sensibly waited until the harvest was safely gathered in before wielding the axe.

  A couple of days earlier, a relieved Pamela recorded that the harvest was finally all but over: ‘September 23rd We’ve moved the thresher to Milner’s now. In the afternoon Lodge, Lawes, Tom, Keith, Gale and I to all intents & purposes finished harvest. I got stuck with the Fordson on the down, but pitched up the last sheaf myself.’ Fittingly, the other members of the workforce evidently granted the young daughter of the house the symbolic gesture of pitching the last sheaf of the 1942 harvest.

  Pamela’s period of compassionate leave was now over, and on 28 September she found herself back at the Registry at Wilton House: ‘Started A.T.S.ing again. Had a trade test in which I made an awful lot of bloomers. Everyone was v. nice including Pru. Seems v. strange to be back. We have 6 people on Registry now.’

  As for Arthur Street, he evidently obeyed doctor’s orders and by the end of September was on the mend: ‘September 29th Nice to have Pop downstairs. His bedroom is the dining-room! He has to go quite slowly for some time. Mummy is looking v. tired. I hope they can go away together afterwards.’

  * * *

  The British military may have scored a minor domestic victory in helping gather in the harvest at Ditchampton Farm, but it was about to win a battle overseas on an infinitely greater scale, and one that would turn the tide in the Allies’ favour in the Mediterranean theatre of war.

  The first battle of El Alamein in the summer of 1942 had ended inconclusively. Afterwards, a frustrated Churchill flew out in person to assess the situation in North Africa, a visit that resulted in a new chain of command and Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery appointed to the leadership of the Eighth Army, now dug firmly into the Egyptian side of the defensive El Alamein line. Throughout the autumn reinforcements were steadily brought in, including the new American M4 Sherman tanks, whilst Montgomery made meticulous plans for a decisive attack to drive back the Afrika Korps. At the same time, diplomatic and military plans were being made for Allied landings, code-named ‘Operation Torch’, in the Vichy French-held dominions of Algeria and Morocco, which, if successful, would enable the Allies to continue eastwards to wrest Tunis from Axis hands and cut off any further retreat westwards by the Afrika Korps.

  Montgomery began his advance on the evening of 23 October, and several days of fierce fighting ensued. Rommel, who earlier in the autumn had been obliged to fly back to Europe on sick leave, was now compelled to return to take command again; however by 3 November he had no option but to order a retreat; the Allies had won the second battle of El Alamein decisively. A few days later came the news of Allied landings at Casablanca, Oran and Algiers. After much wrangling behind the scenes with the Vichy French leaders of these dominions, ‘Operation Torch’ had begun, and the scene was set to remove Axis troops from North Africa once and for all.

  Back home, after all the dispiriting setbacks of earlier in the year, the news of the breakthrough at El Alamein was received ecstatically. This was the much-needed fillip to the nation’s morale that had been absent for so long. On 9 November Pamela wrote: ‘Terrific news from North Africa. American landings & goodness knows what.’

  The following Sunday, 15 November, the Wilton church held a special thanksgiving service: ‘Church Parade & I was marker as usual. This was a celebration for our terrific victory in Libya & the church bells were rung for the first time!’

  News from the Russian front was now equally encouraging. On 4 December Pamela wrote: ‘The wonderful news from N. Africa & Russia still continuing.’

  Just how much of these glad tidings reached prisoners of war is unclear from David’s letters to Pamela. He had continued to write to her throughout the summer and autumn of 1942, his letters giving what details he was allowed to divulge about life in the prison camp and how he and his fellow POWs kept themselves occupied. It is clear from such letters and postcards that reached her, albeit at irregular intervals, that he relied on her constancy and greatly valued the letters she was writing to him in return. For a start, she unwittingly raised his kudos amongst fellow POWs, as a letter from him written on 5 June illustrates:

  I have bought a frame for your photo now & you sit at the foot of my bed & I say good morning & good night to you every day, & everyone is amazed that I should have such a ‘lovely’ there and wonder how I did it!!

  David goes on to look forward to their eventual reunion:

  Darling, you must promise as soon as I get home to get away from those A.T.S. & come & stay at Shaws & help me celebrate my return. We will go up to London for an evening or two & you will have to stop me from getting drunk & eating myself silly! How I am longing to do all those things which we can’t do here, but more than anything to see you again.

  Both to avoid censorship and at the same time reassure his parents and Pamela, David clearly made as light as possible of his physical ailments and discomforts in his letters home. Although the attack of dysentery from which he suffered earlier in the year had cleared up, his stomach trouble still persisted. Many years after the war David recounted to his family how, during his period of captivity in Italy, the only foodstuff of which there was an abundant supply wa
s onions, which formed a significant part of the prisoners’ meagre daily rations. This could hardly have helped anyone suffering from a digestive disorder, and for the rest of his life David disliked onions in his food.

  Another explanation for David’s lifelong aversion to onions may have been that at the time they were thought to have another, potentially more positive, use. Whether as a result of stress, poor diet or simply for congenital reasons, during his late 20s David’s hair began to recede. One of the theories of the day was that one antidote to baldness was for men to shave their heads and then rub their scalps with raw onions. David tried this remedy enthusiastically, though it had little effect, for by the time of his eventual release his temples and top of his head were quite bald.

  By 22 May he evidently felt sufficiently recovered to write reassuringly to his parents: ‘You mustn’t worry about me. I am quite all right & my stomach is better than it has been for some time.’ Similarly, on a postcard of the same date, he wrote to Pamela: ‘I am quite well again & getting very brown in the sun, so there is no need to worry about me! As a matter of fact I am feeling much younger so don’t get too old or you will overtake me!’

  One contributory factor to the improvement in David’s health would have been the fact that by the early summer of 1942 parcels, as well as letters, were beginning to reach him. Back in May, he had included in one of his letters to his parents the following request: ‘Lots of officers get food parcels from America. Could you please get Uncle Leander or someone to fix that for me please?’ It seems this request later bore fruit. Subsequently, David remained in touch with his influential American godfather throughout his period of captivity, as demonstrated by a rare surviving postcard he sent the latter from German prison camp with greetings for Christmas and the new year 1944.