by D. E. Kirk
We stopped on the river bank and watched the shipping go by, the dull colours reflecting on the oil stained waters in the late summer sunshine. All around us life went on, business as usual, women hurried along, sometimes pulling reluctant children behind them. Soldiers, sailors and airmen promenaded by, enjoying their leave as we were, like us being accosted by the occasional, for want of a better word, street vendor offering us all sorts of restricted items and services.
At sometime after six o’clock we headed back to the NCOs club intending to get a bath or shower before going out for the night. When we arrived the desk clerk informed us, “No hot water tonight gents, the boilers packed up.”
So a quick wash in cold water saw us back outside a little less than half an hour later. We found a small café that did a very reasonable three course special and about an hour later we tasted our first pint. The pub we’d chosen was an old place on a corner and it had a quiet, friendly atmosphere about it. We sat down and lit a cigarette and I turned to speak to Ronny asking him if the Major had asked him the same question about joining his Commandos or whatever it was he called them?
“Well yes he has and I don’t mind telling you Alan, I am giving it some really serious thought.”
My mouth opened but I couldn’t find the words at first, then I said “Serious thought … you’ll be telling me next you’ve just enjoyed our trip to France!”
“Well didn’t you, now that we’re back at home, safe and sound?” he shot back at me.
For the first time I admitted to myself that I had.
I didn’t speak for a long while, my vision blurred as my mind played back to me some of the scenes from our time in France.
Eventually I spoke “Yes but would you want that much excitement all of the time?”
“That’s the problem Alan, I think I do, being part of a gun crew doesn’t seem quite the best way for me to make my contribution to the war effort anymore.” Ronny said, whilst lighting up a cigarette before passing the packet over to me.
We finished our drinks, left that pub and made our way to the next, as the night wore on the pubs got fuller and our talk got lighter until eventually we stopped talking about the future and concentrated without too much effort on enjoying our night out.
We had met two girls in one of the pubs and they stayed with us for the rest of the night acting as our guides. At just before eleven pm we shared a fish super with them.
And somewhere near to Waterloo Station, they informed us we had just enough time to get to Soho before the air raids started. So we stole a kiss and with much laughing and joking we thanked them for their company and said our goodnights’.
In fact the girls were wrong, because for some reason best known to the Luftwaffe they chose not to come over on the night of our visit and as such we were able to get a decent nights sleep not being woken until just before seven a.m. by one of the staff with a knock on the door but no cup of tea.
It was two very much the worse for wear Sergeants who said their goodbyes on the platform of Victoria Station later that morning.
Ronny leaving on the ten o’clock train for Bristol and onto Bath, giving me time for two further mugs of tea before catching a later train for Crewe. I managed to get a seat in one of the third class compartments and as the train coughed and wheezed its way north I spent my time alternatively sleeping and smoking until finally at Wolverhampton I was able to stretch my legs and get a cup of tea and a Spam sandwich from a WVS stall on the station platform.
Half an hour later as the train skirted Stafford and passed through Norton Bridge I was starting to feel human again, I went out into the corridor pulled down the window lit a cigarette and watched the familiar fields and hedgerows pass by.
The train pulled into Crewe station at just after four pm,
I handed in my warrant to the ticket collector and left the station intending to search for a bus but noticed Two RAF seven tonners pulled up just outside. A Flight Sergeant was supervising the loading of crates onto the back of the second wagon the first had the curtains closed so was presumably already loaded, “Going anywhere near Market Drayton?” I asked.
“Only right bleeding through it, if these cretins ever get this thing bleeding loaded.” He replied in a southern accent.
“Great any chance of a lift then?” I asked.
“Sorry mate against ‘hairforce’ regulations” and then almost as an afterthought unless you’ve got twenty fags you don’t want?” he replied.
Twenty fags was a bit expensive I thought, but figured it could take me ages to get home by bus.
“Ok then, you’ve got a deal” I said getting a packet out of my kitbag and handing it to him.
Fifteen minutes later I was sitting up front between him and the driver in the first of the two Bedford seven tonners as we left the Station Concourse and headed for RAF Ternhill.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The sun was just beginning to set over the familiar Shropshire landscape that had always been home to me, as I walked up the path to the backdoor of our little terraced cottage. I turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside, already anticipating the look of surprise on my Mum’s face when she saw who’d just walked in.
“Alan!” She cried wiping her hands on her pinafore as she walked across the kitchen to give me a hug, “why didn’t you say you were coming? Look at you, have you lost weight? And what’s this? Three stripes, my word your Dad’s going to be so proud when he sees them why didn’t you tell us? Why haven’t you written? The last time we heard from you was the day after you got back from Dunkirk.”
“Mum, “I said bending down to kiss her forehead, “what a lot of questions put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mum put the kettle on to the hob and I sat down in one of the easy chairs that were each side of the fire in the back room. It seemed strange, everything looked just the same as when I’d left and yet somehow it all seemed different, smaller perhaps.
“Your Dad won’t be long, he’s gone down to the allotment, and he’s got a new job you know, he’s doing war work, munitions over at Radway Green. It takes him nearly an hour to get there, they put on special buses, and he’s trying to get on the Air-Force base at Ternhill as a civilian employee, because that’s only twenty five minutes away if he uses his bike. Perhaps now you are a Sergeant you could put a word in?”
“Yes Mum, next time I’m talking to Winston I’ll mention it.”
“There’s no call to be sarcastic Alan. “She said as she put the tea in the pot, after her usual ritual of warming it first.
I looked across at her and was regretting the remark almost as soon as I’d finished saying it.
“Sorry Mum “I said standing up and giving her a hug. “I’m spending too much time with these flipping Tommie’s.”
Just then the back door opened and my Dad came in, he was carrying a cauliflower and a dead rabbit. He put them both down and came straight to me shaking my hand vigorously.
“Well, well, well!” was all he seemed capable of saying at that particular time, he must have repeated the phrase at least four times before my Mum pushed him down into the opposite chair and poured us all a cup of tea. I explained to them that I’d got two weeks leave as a sort of reward for gaining my Sergeants’ stripes. Because I couldn’t say anything about what I’d really been doing for the past couple of weeks I just emphasised that we’d been on all sorts of courses where it wasn’t possible to get in touch with them.
“We’ll go down the railway club tonight,” my Dad said adding, “leave your uniform on we can show off your stripes!”
My Mum turned away from the sink where she was peeling vegetables looked at my Dad and said. “Perhaps Alan has his own plans don’t you think you should ask him?”
After much discussion between my Mum and Dad I was able to but in and to convince both parties that I was happy to go to the club and as it was my first night home I really didn’t mind wearing my uniform, they were going to make it
compulsory soon for servicemen on leave anyway.
The first week of my leave passed easily enough I was able to catch up on my sleep and recuperate after the strain of the last couple of weeks. I enjoyed being back with my Mum and Dad. However they were really the only company I had because by now most of my school friends had left the village and gone off to join one or other of the Services. Of the lads that were left behind, working in engineering either at the Railway Works in Crewe or at the Radway Green munitions factory, none were on my list of close friends, similarly the girls I knew seemed only interested in the RAF blokes from nearby Tern Hill, I was told that mostly they were secretly hoping to land a pilot of their own.
So it was perhaps no wonder that by lunchtime on the Monday of my second week of leave I walked down to the pub and asked them if I could use their phone to ring Ronny. The phone was answered by his mother who said that he had gone out for a walk but if I left my number she’d get him to phone me back, I explained to her that we hadn’t a phone at home and that I was phoning from the pub.
She said that was ok and that if I could be there at seven thirty that evening she would get him to ring me after dinner.
I walked home, frankly feeling slightly bored and looking forward to a chat with Ronny later.
That evening I cried off going to the club with my Dad and walked down to the pub, bought a pint for myself and a half for Reg the barman, explaining that I was expecting a call. “You sit you down there with the paper then and I’ll shout you when it comes through.” He said.
I was halfway down my pint, engrossed in reading the report on Churchill’s latest speech to the House when Reg shouted to me and I went through behind the bar to take the call.
I think we must have both been glad to hear a familiar voice and we chatted like two schoolgirls, each struggling to get a word in. However as the conversation slowed to a more normal pace it became obvious to both of us that we were both bored to tears being back in the bosom of our families.
Ronny asked if I had plenty of money left and I told him that I’d spent very little, he suggested that we should meet up on the Wednesday at Victoria Station and spend the last few days of our leave somewhere on the coast as there was still plenty of late summer sunshine about, I readily agreed.
All I had to do now was go home and tell Mum and Dad.
The following morning Mum, Dad and I all sat down together for breakfast at about 9.00 a.m. Dad was not going to work until the two o’clock shift and he had swapped some of the vegetables from his allotment for a dozen eggs so we all had eggs. Mum and Dad opting to have theirs poached whilst she boiled two for me.
After we had finished eating and were enjoying a second cup of tea I lit a cigarette and plucked up the courage to tell them that I was going to spend my last few days of leave on the coast. Surprisingly, instead of the objections that I expected, Mum smiled and Dad, whilst lighting up his pipe, simply said
“I don’t blame you son, it must seem a bit boring for you round here with all your mates away.”
Later I borrowed Dads bike and cycled down to the pub to check the train time-table, having worked out my best train, I rang Crewe Station to make sure the trains were running to schedule. They weren’t, the booking clerk advised me that my best option was to take the night train that left Crewe at one a.m. and which should get me into Victoria at six forty-three on Wednesday.
When I got home again I told Mum and Dad what I planned, Mum had a bit of difficulty hiding her disappointment, but Dad practical as ever, simply asked how I planned to get to Crewe?
I confessed that I hadn’t thought of that, he told me to leave that to him and picking up his bike clips from the top of the scullery cupboard went out of the backdoor.
He came back about half an hour later and explained that, Bert Johnson, the local butcher would pick me up at eleven thirty that night and take me to Crewe in his van. Dad then went to get ready for work and I walked him to the bus stop to catch his ‘works special’ bus that would take him to the munitions factory. With a wave he boarded the bus and with a crunch of gears the bus pulled away, leaving me waving as the bus disappeared into the distance.
I lit a cigarette and walked back down the lane to our house.
Mum helped me pack and did me some sandwiches for the journey.
True to his word Bert arrived, spot on eleven thirty and
I bade a tearful farewell just to Mum, as Dad was still not back from work, Bert and I set off.
There was a full moon making the journey much easier for Bert who had only limited headlights due to the blackout restrictions, shortly before a quarter past twelve we arrived at the station. I thanked Bert and said farewell. “Think nothing of it lad, least I could do, your Dad’s always been good to Me.” he said and with a cheery wave drove the little Ford van away.
The train arrived more or less on time and I managed to get a compartment to myself and shortly after we had stopped at Stoke, I was snuggled down into my greatcoat and ready to go to sleep.
I had woken a few times briefly, as people came and went from the compartment, at Rugby I bought a cup of tea and ate my sandwiches but in the main I had managed to sleep most of the way to Victoria. At the station it took some time for me to pull myself together, only waking properly as the guard came down the corridor announcing our arrival.
I got off the train and hoisted up my kit bag and put my Glengarry at the correct angle, glancing up at the huge station clock I saw that it was six fifty four. It was chilly and I was not at my best following the sleep on the train, glancing around I saw a sign for the station wash and brush up and was surprised to see that it was open so early in the morning. I made my way across and was greeted by an elderly attendant in a white jacket. “Morning Sergeant, wash and brush up is it?” He spoke with a southern accent and had a cheery smile despite the early hour, I replied that it was indeed my requirement and he gave me a clean towel and a small bar of soap wrapped in paper. As I made my way to the sinks he shouted to me that I could borrow the razor with a new blade for another twopence, I took him up on the offer and he said he would sort me out with that and a mug of boiling water. True to his word, by the time I had stripped down to my singlet he arrived with an old Gillette razor, a new blade still wrapped and a cracked earthenware mug with steaming water.
My ablutions over, I gave him two bob which was one and six for the wash and brush up, twopence for the razor and a threepenny tip as I felt he had looked after me well.
I made my way to the station buffet, entered and went up to the counter, a woman in her forties with bright blonde hair smiled invitingly and asked me if I could see anything I fancied? Ignoring what I guessed was her innuendo I asked for bacon and eggs and three slices of toast, I perhaps should have humoured her a bit more, as she delighted in telling me there was no bacon and no eggs but I could have sausage and tomatoes with my toast if I wanted. “It’s the war dear” she offered in explanation.
I took up the offer and ordered a mug of tea to wash it down, and went to sit at one of the tables. Ten minutes later my breakfast; two very greasy sausages, watery tomatoes, with burnt toast on a separate plate, plus an enormous mug of scalding tea was brought to my table by an old lady in a hairnet and pinafore. “Enjoy your breakfast dear.” she said and hobbled back towards the kitchen.
Unappetising as the meal looked, with the help of several splashes of HP sauce I managed to do it justice and was just cleaning the plate with the last of the toast when the door to the buffet opened and with a grin from ear to ear in walked Ronnie.
Ronnie ordered two more mugs of tea and sat down opposite, taking out a pack of Players he threw one to me and lit one for himself. “Our train doesn’t leave until nearly nine so plenty of time.” he said.
By now I had ceased to be surprised by Ronnie’s organisational skills, though I was interested to know where exactly our train was going. Ron explained that his Mum had suggested we went to stay with her sister in Sheringham in Norfolk for
a few days. So he had rung his uncle, who was the local vicar and who was so delighted by the idea that he had insisted on buying the train tickets and had promised to meet us at the station.
A two hour train ride and we were in Norwich, we then waited at the station for half an hour or so for the local train which chugged and wheezed its way to Sheringham, stopping it seemed at a village halt every ten minutes. Finally the train pulled into our station and happily we jumped down onto the platform. We handed our ticket stubs to the collector and walked outside to the station concourse, you could smell the salt on the bracing sea air and overhead, as if to confirm our location, half a dozen gulls wheeled and squawked above us.
“I wonder where Uncle Josh is.” Ron said whilst looking around him in all directions. As if in answer to his question, around the corner at some speed came a trap pulled by a very smart grey pony. On the driving seat dressed in tweed jacket and plus fours and polished brogues sat a man in his fifties. He pulled back the reins in his hands. “Whoa there Jackson!” the man said, pulling back on the reins and stopping the trap right in front of us.
Jumping down, almost before the trap had stopped; calling Ronnie by his real name (the nickname Ronnie had been an invention of Fishy’s) the man grabbed Ronnie’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Peter how are you? You are certainly looking very fit.” Using his free hand to hold his uncle’s shoulder and reduce some of the vigour of the hand shake Ronnie turned his uncle to face me. “I’m very well Uncle Josh and you are right, I’m fitter than ever, let me introduce you to my friend Alan, he’s my best friend and was over in France with me.” Uncle Josh stopped the hand shake and turned to me again, offering his outstretched hand and resuming the pumping. Once the greetings were completed we threw our kitbags into the trap and climbed aboard after them, Josh shaking the reins and shouting to the pony who didn’t need telling twice and was quickly away at a very smart trot.