An Adolescent in 1939-42

My first job was on a farm. First day, 4:30am in early February…I was 14. The farmer was a hardheaded north countryman. I had to let out and feed the chickens and then go up to a 100-acre field which was covered in heaps of manure waiting to be spread. So I started. After about an hour and spreading two or three heaps of incredibly smelling pig muck, I thought ’My God, I’m going to be doing this for ages. My education can’t have been totally wasted. I timed the spread time of the next heap, counted the remaining heaps, length by breadth of the field, about 300: x 20 minutes…Oh no!…100 hours came up in the sum in the dirt. Fortunately an adult appeared on the scene and the task seemed less formidable. Mother could not stand the stink when I arrived home…I bathed in a galvanised bath in the kitchen and changed my job pronto.

I next found work in the grocery/bakery shop up Gascoigne Lane in Ropley. It’s not there any more. It was run by two Harding brothers, Charlie and William. I used to deliver bread and groceries around the village on a tradesman’s bike with a large wicker basket in the front. When that was done I served in the shop until 4pm, then was off with William in a big maroon Chevrolet van, to deliver goods and groceries in the outlying villages, usually arriving back at the shop by 10pm. One elderly, wealthy old lady gave me an order including ‘black treacle’. “It must be Fowlers West Indian, young man.” “I’ll do my best, Ma’am, but there is a war on you know.” The lady thought a comment like that from a young upstart was the height if impudence and she said so in a well educated stentorian voice. She was very angry when on my next visit there was no black treacle. Neither was she amused when I said, “It was probably on that ship that was reported sunk last week.”

At 15,this baker’s boy, cycling around on a tradesman’s bike with sweet smelling hot freshly made uncovered bread in the basket, fearlessly watched the Battle of Britain air battles, dog fights as they were then called, between RAF Spitfires and marauding German bombers weaving a pattern of bright white trails in the clear azure blue 1940 summer sky, accompanied by staccato bursts of fire from the 8 wing mounted Spitfire’s guns and the chatter of return fire from the Luftwaffe Junkers 88s, Dornier bombers and ME 109’s.

One day I remember seeing a couple of aircraft, mere specs way above, falling away with smoke pouring from them and no parachutes to be seen. I wondered and wondered what happened to the crews. These dogfights were exciting, yet somehow ghostly so vertically distant.
I anxiously awaited my 18th birthday when I could volunteer for flying duty in the RAF. Spitfires.

At about 10:30 one evening, William and I were on our last deliveries and there were a couple of almighty ‘crumps’. Two bombs had been dropped not far away, we knew not where. We stopped at our last gate. It was very dark. I stayed in the van and William disappeared up the drive on foot. He was a long time but eventually he came back for more bread. He had fallen into the bomb crater. He couldn’t possibly deliver the first lot; they were still in the bomb hole. One afternoon on a hot summer day in 1940, a “dog- fight” took place and a Junkers 88 had been shot down, crashing in a field at West Tisted, and I remember rushing off with adolescent speed on my bicycle to see the remains of the plane and crew.

16 now, and I had started an apprenticeship with the Mid Southern Utility Co. who were the electrical distribution people in the area, eventually to become a branch of the Southern Electricity Board. My wage was 5 shillings for a fifty- two and a half-hour week with an extra 6d a week for my bicycle. On many occasions I would cycle 10 miles to Winchester or one of the local villages to play in a band, cycle home at midnight and be up again at six thirty to cycle the three miles to work in Alresford. It was hard going but rewarding. After a year or so, I discovered that the agent was charging £1 a night for my musical services, (20 shillings to the £1) and still paying me five, but it was as much as I was getting for the week’s work as an apprentice and a lot easier. It was my first experience of commerce.

It was 1941, and at this time the army was in the area in vast numbers. We entertained some at home. One was the proud owner of a 250cc over-head valve OK Supreme motorcycle. He was a real motorcycle enthusiast and used to take me for rides. What a thrill. Eventually he taught me to ride it around the garden, around the fruit trees, over the potato patch, doing my best to avoid the running- wild, hysterically cackling chicken.

The war was well and truly on.
Riding my bike home one Saturday lunchtime, I called into the Shant Inn for a thirst quencher to find all the occupants staring at their half filled glasses through steamed up hastily donned gas masks. The air raid warning had been given by the Air Raid Precaution (ARP) car rushing past with hand bell ringing. The imbibers had mistaken the warning for a gas attack and were somewhat surprised at this young lad ignoring the warning. I wondered at the time whether I was wrong or were they. Thank goodness I was right. The gas attack warning rattle was never needed.

Cycling home from playing for a dance in the village hall at Bighton one still tranquil summer night at about 1am; at the bridge over the railway line ,(now the watercress line)just east of Ropley station, to my surprise I was commanded “Halt, who goes there?” The Home Guard were on duty. This was the time when an invasion by German troops was anticipated.
“It’s me Jack you silly old bugger”
“Who is me? Advance and be recognised or I’ll fire”
Oh God! I dismounted and cautiously moved towards this obviously jittery sentry.
“You could ‘ve been shot you know I’ve got one up the spout”. (up the spout meaning that the gun was loaded).”There’s a war on you know and you could easily have been a German parachutist”
After a few minutes chastisement, I was allowed to proceed. Real Dad’s army stuff this.

At night, German bombers would fly overhead, sounding low enough to see. I used to throw stones in the air in the vain hope of hitting one! Sometimes the rat-ta-tat of night fighters would wake us from sleep. On one occasion a bomber released its deadly load a mile up the road in a field trying to get away. Tooter was on my bed and hastily got beneath the covers. A few noisy nights later more bombs came down in a field at Bramdean a couple of miles away as the crow flies.

The electrical work was fine. By the age of 17, I was wiring houses, fixing meters, mending cookers, and connecting the mains to houses. Rural electrification was in full swing and we were busy. My tradesman was a big Canadian who had come over on holiday in the summer of 1939 and was stuck in the UK unable to get a passage home.

Big Bob Kemp was a good teacher; capable of doing most things electrical as far as the electrical supply industry was concerned. He was given a 600cc-side valve docile Ariel motorcycle to use as his transport, complete with steel grill on the back for carrying the cash boxes when emptying the “pay as you go” meters. It was strictly forbidden for me to ride pillion and I was expected to ride my bicycle to the daily work with him. Ha! Some hopes of that. Bob would leave the works yard, with his tools strapped to the rear grill and make for the café up the street. I would join him, have a cup of tea and a bun for the grand price of one old penny. He would remove the tools, I would sit on the grill, the tools would be transferred to the tank and we would proceed to the job with me riding pillion, right foot on the kick start, left foot sharing the rider’s foot rest. I rode many hundreds of illegal miles like this. The boss knew of course but did nothing about it. There was a war on and people had much more serious things to worry about than a young lad-riding pillion and enjoying himself, even if there was the risk of falling off and or ruining his manhood. Bob was a good safe rider and never once was there the slightest feeling of insecurity. Bob needed an assistant and I needed the ride! We had fun he and I.

Wiring the Tichborne village hall Bob said, “I’ll take up a floorboard, you go under, I’ll drill holes and you can push the wire up through. I’m going to get some fags” Two hours later he returned to find wire poking up through some holes but not all of them. “You there Stan?” A muffled voice replied “Yes. Where have you been? I’ve been stuck under here for ages” My overalls and pants had been pierced by a rusty old nail and I tried to take them off. Imagine Bob’s surprise when, in his torch light, he saw my bare bum with pants around my ankles. “Goddamn Laddie. What are you doing? I suppose I’ll have to take up three or four boards to get you out.”

Bob was off work on one very rare occasion and I went to his home for lunch. On opening the front door, at the end of a long hallway was Bob; trousers down, stooped over a large bucket of water, splashing his manhood. He had used some Sloanes liniment, the potent lotion of the day for pulled muscles, and it had sprayed where there was no pulled muscle. His little wife in the kitchen was in hysterics!

The show room door was in a recess off the pavement and next to a lively pub. It was the norm when opening up on Monday morning to scrub the recess and floor mat to remove the stench of urine put there by weekend drinkers. The manager said “I’ll stop that” He acquired a motorcycle magneto, joined it up to a small electric motor and wired it up to the chrome doorframe. Came Monday morning, no urine stench, and a few minutes after opening a young man came in to report that he had had a shock off the door. The shock wouldn’t have hurt him other than give his manhood a jolt. We had no more problems of that nature.

Meter reading was hectic. In town I would read about 200 a day, in the country districts probably 100. No calculators then. Consumption had to be calculated and entered on the customer’s meter card. I was reading the meter at Ropley church, which was situated high on the wall in the vestry behind the organ, and meant climbing to see it. The vicar came in and was merrily talking to himself when, for fun, I dropped the thick heavy meter reader’s book from my great height, making sure that it fell flat to have maximum audible effect. The poor man nearly had a fit and gave me some talking to. We had a bit of a laugh when he phoned to complain to the boss.

I was entrusted with the job of filling the manager’s 350cc Ariel Red Hunter motorcycle, and was allowed to push it down to Hankin’s garage having first cleaned and polished it. It wasn’t long before I was sitting astride, coasting down and pushing it back. And then of course the obvious; starting it and riding it.

The Methodist hall in Broad Street had been taken over by the army. Bob and I were detailed to wire up the boot repair machines and extra lighting. Situated on top of a ladder inside the hall, I hit my thumb with a hammer resulting in some language I had certainly not learnt at school. The ladder began to shake; I began to wonder if HE was in attendance! On looking down I saw an elderly lady who was demanding my immediate descent. It was too dangerous to stay aloft so down I came and received a very stern lecture about the use of such language in the House of the Lord. “Do you read your portion of the Good Book every day young man?” “Oh yes of course” said I. Bob, now an interested bystander, said in his loud Canadian voice “You Goddam liar”. The enraged lady, no doubt a respected pillar of society, chased me relentlessly for weeks, which had me crossing the road to avoid her lectures whenever I saw her. If Bob were here now he would still be laughing his head off.

There was no sympathy for those who didn’t pay their bills. Five or six weeks after meter reading, was “cut-off” time and Bob or I would have the job of collecting or disconnecting. On one occasion, a member of the House of Lords, The Right Honourable the Lord Templemore, was overdue and I was sent round to do the necessary. I strode up the front door of the mansion in Old Alresford, rang the bell and was confronted by the butler. He took one look at me and said in his most arrogant tone of voice “Tradesmen round the back” my instant reply was “I’m not a tradesman, I’m an apprentice”. Since no money was forth coming, I did the necessary up the pole, with climbing irons, and disconnected the supply. By the time I got back to the office, there was some heated conversation going on the phone and I was sent back to reconnect. The cheque was there but no reconnection fee so, obeying instructions, the premises remained cut off from the electricity supply and the whole process started again to be eventually sorted out by the chief engineer himself. “Well-done lad, you were only obeying my instructions”

This was summer time and harvesting was in full swing. When I had some spare time, I would be in the near-by fields making stooks from the sheaves of corn: No combine harvesters then. My work in the electricity supply industry was classified as a reserved occupation which meant that I would not be conscripted into the armed forces at 18 years of age, as was the norm. Arial dogfights had now become occasional occurrences but my urge to fly Spitfires had not diminished. I volunteered for RAF aircrew, was interviewed and rejected. I knew not why. Imagine my chagrin when no more than two or three days later I received my call-up papers from the Royal Navy. I didn’t fancy that one little bit, so I sent them back by return of post with a letter enclosed pointing out that I was in a reserved occupation. The reply was immediate. “You volunteered for active service. The Senior Service Royal Navy has priority need for electricians. Report immediately to RN barracks Gosport forthwith using the rail passes enclosed or be arrested by the RN police. Oh God!

The day before my call-up into the RN, I was chasing rats in a cornfield across the 2 inch stubble. They couldn’t run as fast as me in those conditions, and one turned and grabbed my ankle through to the bone. On my first days in the Navy, square bashing days, I poured neat iodine into the wound rather than report sick. It healed, but the scar remained for many months and other recruits couldn’t understand why I didn’t report sick. “Just for that!” I remember saying. Thinking of rats reminds me of the occasion when cycling home at dead of night from a dance band engagement, I was startled to see in the moonlight, hundreds of the creatures crossing the road en route from one field across the road to another, compelling me to a rapid stop until some minutes later the road was clear. Scary!

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