by Ronald Cove
14:
GRANDMA SUSPECTS GAS
As it turned out, on our arrival in Old Ford we could see at once that although part of the place had been obliterated by the nights bombing, so far the cockney spirit was still prevalent. Most of the men while helping those people who had survived the Summer Street bombing, were at the same time venting their anger at the jerry Luftwaffe. It was in fact one of these old boys that handed a torch, which was in good condition, to Selby saying he’d found it in a garden in Spring Street which was opposite Summer Street. He reckoned this rather strange, as it was still switched on and seemed to be angled towards Bryant & May match factory. Dave and I also thought it rather strange, especially when someone else placed another torch in Dave’s hand, telling us he’d found it in Bryant & May itself and like its twin brother still switched on, only this one had been positioned in an upright position. This fellow also told us a bomb had exploded in the yard of the match factory, blowing a steamroller or something very similar over into some old lady’s front yard.
Of course by this time we’d been round to check my parents were alright, they both turned up trumps, still light on their feet. My old dad was in fact busy explaining to the old boy, who owned the barber shop next door, how earlier that night, an aerial torpedo dipped over from the back, then climbed up the back wall, sailed over the roof and away without exploding. It was at this point another old fellow who ran the tobacconist, the other side of my parents, chimed in saying he’d been told that first a parachute had wrapped itself around one of the match factory’s towers (chimney) with a land mine swinging, still attached, and secondly it wasn’t a bomb that obliterated Summer Street, it was in fact rumoured a bloody land mine had floated onto it, so he was told.
Anyway me and Dave left it there, we wandered back to the carnage of Summer Street and to hopefully find the old girl who was having trouble with a steamroller. On our way, we first passed a fish and chip shop on our left, then a pub on the corner, on passed a small cul-de-sac which seemed to lead into a bus station of sorts. There were even out of service buses parked both sides of the road. On crossing this road we were next confronted by a small detached house which seemed to stand out on its own, surrounded by a rather large picket fence and sure enough, there smack in the middle of a small front yard snug tight under the only front window we could see downstairs, lay some sort of steamroller. “Blimey Bill that must ‘ave given the ol’ girl a bleedin’ ‘eart attack,” Dave sung out. I just nodded and immediately started banging on the old girl’s front door, while calling in a pleasant a voice that I could “Open the door luv, we’re ‘ere to ‘elp yer”. Dave also chimed in with “Come on mother you’ll be alright, open the door dear”. No response came back at us. Nevertheless while we were doing all this serenading we became aware of a great deal of steam still expiring from the contraption stuck under the old girl’s window. Funnily enough though, from where we stood we could see the sodden thing hadn’t touched any part of the picket fence. So it must have been blown straight up over the Bryant & May wire fence, and somehow sailed across the road then dropped straight down into the old girls front yard, without touching the fence or any part of the house for that matter.
Quite suddenly there came a muffled voice which was barely audible above the hissing of the escaping steam “The keys on a bleedin’ string in the letterbox, yer pair of dimwits” it told us in a beautiful old cockney tongue. Anyway it was Dave who eventually retrieved the key from inside the letterbox, this of course was a habit most Londoners would practice in those days. By hanging their spare key inside the letterbox, it meant they would never lock themselves out and in the case of an emergency a neighbour or close friend would be able to help if necessary, and this in fact was what Dave and I were endeavouring to do, but instead were making a right balls-up of a job.
So now with Dave in front of me, it automatically gave him the honour of opening the door, where we knew this old cockney lady would be shaking with fear. At least that’s what we thought. However we were both brought up short when we entered the room, because there seated on a chair next to a table that was positioned under the bay window an old girl sat glaring at us. She had what we perceived to be, some sort of scarf held up in front of her face, and although the room smelt musty, there was also a strong smell of urine floating around the room. On the table lay a small bowl half-filled with water, next to it a bag of sweets with a snuff box close by. “What on earth are you doin’ mother?” DI. Selby asked in amazement, and at that point tried stifling a fit of giggling. I also seeing the funny side of it was doing likewise. Anyway for an answer he received a lingering hard stare. Of course dear old granny must have sussed what we were thinking, for this dear old cockney lady sneered at us “Yes well the pair of you may snigger, but I’m a rememberin’ the last bloody war, and in the manual I received it clearly stated ‘in case of gas, place a rag soaked in urine over yer nose and mouth, so there” this poor mislead creature quoted this snippet of useless information as though it had come straight from the bible. “Oh no Gran that’s no good, ‘aven’t yer got a government-issued gas mask?” Selby enquired in despair. “Yes of course I’ve got one, it’s upstairs under me bleedin’ bed alongside me piss pot” she answered, then shaking her head added, “but it was a sight bloody easier to pee in me drawers, whip ‘em off and ‘old ‘em over me face” she proudly admitted, and before either of us could utter another word she went on “anyway, you say it’s no good, but it’s bloody well asaved me,” she announced. “No, no, my darlin’ it’s not gas, it’s steam you can see” I gently informed her. She glared back at me in amazement. “Not one of them bleedin’ gas bombs they used in the last lot, you say?” I smiled and shook my head slightly. “No gran” I assured her. “Oh well, in that case I’ll ‘ave another toffee,” she told us on perking up “An’ you two can make a pot of tea” then she grabbed the bag of sweets which lay beside her on the table “D’yer want one?” she offered. We both declined a toffee and tea and headed towards the front door, promising to send around a local bobby to check and see she was alright. “Oi, make sure the bleedin’ keys still there” the dear old thing requested as we closed the front door and burst into laughter.
Now as we started to retrace our steps towards Bryant & May a soft voice cut through the dark “Ah there you are Sir,” and of course Selby and I knew at once we were now in the presence of that lady’s man DC Tony Willis our driver and the third member of our team. “Where the bleedin’ ‘ell you been?” Selby warmly greeted him. “Well Sir, the train stopped for over half an hour just outside Barking for a bloody start” Willis began, at this point Selby raised his hand “I know, don’t bother, say no more son, you ran into an air raid, so the bloody thing had to wait till it was all clear, is that right?” Selby put forward for Willis’s defence. “Spot on Sir” Willis readily agreed. “Right then, until I say otherwise, yer stick with us, ‘ave yer got that son?” Selby demanded. “Loud and clear Sir”. DC. Willis replied as we all three groped along through the bloody blackout.
When we finally arrived at Bryant & Mays gate Selby put into words what I’d been thinking “Look lads, there’s bugger all we can do ‘ere, the sod we’re after ‘as obviously been and gone, I daresay he planted them bleedin’ torches then bloody scarpered, and us silly sods ain’t got a poxy clue as to where, so let’s get back to the station” Selby recited. “Seems to me all we’ve done tonight is quash gran’mas’ fears about the bloody gas” I put in. Then DC. Willis added a few words which could not be heard on account of a police car that tore past clanging its bell for all it was worth. “Wonder if them idiots can see where the bleedin’ ‘ell they’re goin’” I vented my thoughts. “I’d like to know who they’re after, tearin’ around these dark streets like that?” Selby enquired. “Yeah, and with no bleedin’ lights on either” Willis added for good measure. “Still we mustn’t condemn ‘em too much, after all they are on our team” I pointed out. “Yeah but rushin’ about like that, they could q
uite easily kill some poor sod” Willis put in the pot.
It was then DI. Selby stepped in with his prediction “Yer know boys in years to come everybody will be flyin’ about in one of them bloody death traps, and no matter where you may live all yer bleedin’ neighbours will ‘ave two or three of them tin boxes stuck outside their bleedin’ ‘ouse, you just mark my words” he very wisely and patiently informed us. “Yer mean them silly sods won’t be content livin’ in a bleedin’ brick box and goin’ to their grave in a wooden box, they’ll wanna spend the in-between bit runnin’ around in a tin box. Oh ‘ow bleedin’ excitin’,” Willis chuckled.
15:
MURDERERS ROW
The bogus RAF corporal Dick Fletcher handed his rail ticket to a collector at the Hornchurch railway station, who showed not the slightest interest or suspicion when the corporal enquired as to which direction the Hornchurch aerodrome lay. The man took his ticket, smiled and said, “New are you son?” The corporal smiled back, then replied “Does it show mate?” and went on “there’s a sight more new blokes on the way”. “Blimey they must have lost quite a few boys then” the ticket man surmised with a shake of his head. “Anyway” he continued “you turn right out of the station here, then keep on going straight down pass the school on your right” he then hesitated for a moment, produced a pen from his pocket and grabbed a sheet of paper off a desk which stood just inside his little office. “Here, hang on a minute, I’ll write it down for you” he volunteered. “That’s very kind of you” the RAF corporal thanked him. “Ah that’s alright corporal, we very often have to direct the new ones” the porter replied as he studied the sheet of paper he now held in his hand. However he did not pass the paper to Cpl: Fletcher straight away “See, I’ve marked it here” he pointed with his pen “now there’s the school ‘Suttons’ it’s called” he then waited a second or two before handing his written directions to the patiently waiting corporal, after which he took a tin of tobacco out of his pocket, measured a two-inch strip into a fag paper then started to roll a very substantial cigarette. On its completion he tucked this new creation comfortably behind his ear, re-arranged his peak cap then referred back to the sheet of paper that he’d handed to Corporal Fletcher with his artwork proudly displayed and said “As you can see I’ve put a cross where the school is, so like I said go on pass that and you’ll find the airfield waiting for you on your right” again he paused, then added “really all you have to do is keep going and looking to your right, you’ll eventually wind up on the airfield, and it shouldn’t take you too long because you’re not carrying much kit I see”. The corporal held up his briefcase, tapped it with his hand and said “All I need is in here, anyway thank you very much for your help” he added and with a final smile turned and made his way from the station.
*
When we finally arrived back at Bow Police Station some thoughtful young copper supplied us with a mug of hot tea, and a plate loaded with digestive biscuits. We neglected to ask where so many biscuits had come from. “Ah just what the doctor ordered” Selby declared while rubbing his hands together. “Where we off to next Dave?” I asked with a mouthful of biscuit. “Well to be honest Bill, I’ve got this gut feeling that tells me the bugger we’re chasing about after will no doubt be ‘eading for Hornchurch about now” the inspector paused for a moment, looked very thoughtful before continuing, “although come to think of it” at this point the inspector broke off again, gave me and DC. Willis one of his long in-depth glances, then burst out “yeah, of course that’s it Dagenham, there’s Fords and Briggs, there’s also one or two other factories down there the bugger could go for”. He left it there, jumped to his feet, gulped back a long mouthful of tea, stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and mumbled something that sounded like “let’s get bloody moving”. “Sod it, another bloody train ride in the bleedin’ dark” Willis complained.
As we crossed the road from police station to railway station, DI. Selby put into words my thoughts “Well at least one things for sure, ol’ Superintendent Rickman was right, bleedin’ jerry did slip a few of their lot in with our boys at Dunkirk, them bloody torches verify that alright, what yer reckon Bill?” he confided. “Yeah me ol’ mate, I’ve been thinkin’ that all along” I offered as redress. Next it was Willis’s turn, he presented the obvious which Dave and myself had purposely neglected to mention “The question is ‘ow many of them buggers got through?” he smugly enquired. “That constable is anybody’s guess,” Selby told him.
We climbed aboard the third carriage of an Upminster train just as two young soldiers from the Fusiliers hopped off and immediately went into a routine of chatting to a couple of over made up, under-dressed young females, while we guardians of the law looked on with envy. Selby rolled his eyes with a deep sigh “I don’t know, youngsters today!” he remarked with a touch of disapproval in his voice. “Ah never mind ‘ere ‘ave a fag” Willis chuckled as he offered his pack of Senior Service. It was then for some reason or other my mind slipped back in time and I remembered Sgt: Johnson back in the last war giving Rifleman Topley a bollocking for trying to have it off with a young French girl up against an old barn. I smiled to myself at this memory, then immediately tried to erase the incident clear from my mind as sadly both men involved were later killed in action.
However while I’d been wrestling with past events, Dave had obviously indulged in some deep thinking of his own. He suddenly jumped to his feet “‘Ang about lads, on second thoughts now we know for certain its either one or two krouts we’re lookin’ for, I’m not too sure he or they would be rushin’ down to Hornchurch or Dagenham after all” his words came rattling out at us sharp and fast, machine gun fashion. “Whoa ‘old yer ‘orses Dave, I think yer can be sure it’s just the one bugger we’re dealin’ with ‘ere, and guess what, I’ve got a gut feelin’ we’ve ‘ad dealings with this particular sod in the distant past” I quickly fired back at him. DC. Willis stood mouth open, he first looked at me then at Dave, and I saw his eyes roll upwards. Dave came back at me “What the bloody ‘ell you on about, dealin’ with ‘im before?” Dave groaned and looked puzzled. “Oh for Christ sake, remember the captain on the white ‘orse, the Somme?” I jogged his memory. His face lit up, nodded his head and came back with a long drawn out “Of course”.
It was then the train started moving, going from Bow towards Bromley. The silence between us seemed to float around the carriage for a minute or so, it then fell to Willis as junior member of our team to inform us we were on the move. “So gentlemen its either Hornchurch or Dagenham now” he declared as he exhaled a lungful of smoke, pinched out his half-smoked cigarette, tucked what remained into his right- hand dog end pocket of his coat and quickly added, “besides I ain’t got any bloody idea what yous two are on about”. This final declaration brought an end to DC. Willis’s thoughts on the subject. He then sat down folding his arms and closed his eyes. I grinned at Dave “Now what?” I offered in despair. “Well what I’m thinkin’ Bill, the bugger could ‘ave decided to stay in London after all” he paused for a moment, grimaced gave a slight shake of his head “in other words the sods outwitted us again, he knew bloody well us silly sods would go runnin’ back to Hornchurch thinkin’ he’d head straight for that bloody airfield, but instead the clever bastards stuck around London, after all there’s them bleedin’ blocks of flats in Hackney for a start, and that’s not to mention all them underground stations ‘ereabouts, Jesus he could ‘ave a bloody field day” Dave once again rattled off in a torrent of passion. “Yeah, and ‘ere we are all doin’ what he bloody well expects, brilliant” Willis put in for good measure. Next it was my turn “No Dave the people from them flats will all be down their air raid shelters,” I cleverly pointed out. “Yeah but all their bloody ‘omes will be gone,” he very smartly offered in return. “No ol’ jerry won’t see them bleedin’ flats, remember the blackout,” I reminded him. “Blackout, bollocks, when did that ever stop ‘em?” he next wanted to know. To that I could give no answer, so I quickly cha
nged the subject “and besides, bombing them underground stations won’t do much good, they’re bleedin’ bomb-proof, that’s why they cut the electric off at night and whole families sleep down there in safety all bleedin’ night” I mentioned this as though passing on a state secret. “Yeah well we all know that mate, but what about if a couple of them bombs bring the whole station down on top of ‘em” Dave paused for a moment, gave me a look that made me start thinking about what he was hinting at. He continued “they’ll be a few bleedin’ ‘eart attacks before they can dig too many of ‘em out, I’m tellin’ yer Bill” Dave concluded as our train crept to a stop in Bromley station.
There followed a loud hissing sound, the doors slid smoothly open. Suddenly a few dim lights that still glowed in the carriage went out. We found ourselves in complete darkness. DI. Selby was on his feet again “Now what?” he started. A voice on a loudspeaker cut him short, “Everyone please leave the train, please vacate this train and take immediate cover, there is a violent air raid in progress.
At this time anybody who happened to be in the vicinity would have seen three brave officers of the law sprinting hell-bent for leather from train to platform and onto the street, do a quick turn right down the Bromley Hill, passed the cemetery, also situated on the right, straight into the nearest community street brick built air- raid shelter, without once stopping for a breather. When we eventually settled down in this newly built shelter, we noticed six pairs of eyes glaring at us with deep interest. One old boy reached over and raised the wick in an old trench lantern, so now we could put faces with the eyes of our six cell mates. Two men and four women came clearly into view, all middle-aged. The old fellow who’d raised the wick in the lamp gave us a courteous nod, stuck a pipe in his mouth, sat back on the long bench, folded his arms then studied us some more. The four old girls were all busy knitting, although they still found time to give us the once over. Their companion, the second male in this small congregation, after satisfying himself that we were actually specimens of the human race, stuck a fag in his mouth lit it and commenced blowing great volumes of smoke everywhere, he then leant forward and started to write what I presumed was a love letter to some young bird the poor old sod had tucked away somewhere or other.