Kid's Army

Kid’s Army

My war was happy and carefree, although looking back now, I can see there was sadness and loss — it just didn’t impinge on me then.
I was nine years old on that Sunday morning in 1939, living in Cleator Moor, a village in Cumberland. We didn’t have a wireless set and went to Mrs.Bennet’s, a neighbour, to hear Chamberlain’s announcement.
The atmosphere in the small room was tense and serious, but I didn’t realise the implications. Mrs.Bennet cried — she had two brothers of fighting age and indeed she was to lose them both.
The news on the wireless became very important, and we go a set in order to listen. I remember the announcers always gave their names, “Here is the none o’clock news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it”. This was the phoney war yet preparations went on. We had gas-mask practice in school, and had to make covers for the clumsy, unwieldy things. We wore the masks for Sunday school, and became very nonchalant about them. My mother though was frightened. She was a severe asthmatic and the idea of covering her face with a mask terrified her.
When we knew evacuees were coming, we were all wildly excited. Our cottage was very small so we didn’t have to take one. But I remember the delight when they arrived and were allocated families from school. Comments flew …
“He’s mine !”
“Look who Susan’s got.”
“Poor soul ! Look where she’s got to go.”

Within 18 months, three-quarters of them had gone back home.

At 11 I went to the local grammar school. We went in the mornings, and the evacuees from Heaton, who had their own teachers, went in the afternoons. This worked well — we got on together and I don’t remember any friction. We learned from each other — they taught us their street games, and absorbed our country customs. I remember one girl being shocked when she saw the dirt clinging to sheep’s tails. They loved hay-making, which of course was done in the old-fashioned way with horses.
Our homes were mostly poor, but as we were in the country, we never went short of food. People kept hens, and often a pig, and local farms supplied milk and the odd chicken.
We all loved watching the Home-Guard train. They used a local field which had a beck running through it. In one of their exercises, in which they were divided into Germans and English, they lay on the grass and pulled imaginary pins from imaginary hand-grenades with their teeth. They then had to throw the grenades and jump across the stream. Some made it and some didn’t. The butcher was so fat they couldn’t get a uniform to fit him. You can imagine the comments from local women, “I hope my life doesn’t depend on him !”. We kids delighted in copying their antics, and of course were far more agile. Often there were parades and flag days to support the Home-Guard.
A man called John Roberts ran a travelling library from a suitcase, which he carried from village to village. It cost a penny or tuppence to borrow a book. The library had been in the market-hall of the local town. This was sand-bagged throughout the war, and guarded by the ARP. No-one was allowed in, although I have never discovered why. My grandma wouldn’t go anywhere near it.
The sirens went only three times. The first time must have been a mistake, as the all-clear went immediately. During the other times we could hear planes on their way to bomb Glasgow.
My grandmother had a sister living in Maryport, with her daughter and a teacher they had boarding there. A plane returning from Glasgow, not having dropped its bombs, shed its load on her house. This was a direct hit — there was nothing but a huge hole. No-one was found — only a few piano keys were seen scattered about. The hand of fate.
A plan crashed at nearby Lamplugh, and we all raced up on our bikes to look. There were many sightseers. I remember being surprised by how small it was.
There was a disused railway line near my village, and Pullman coaches were brought and left there for the duration. We kids played amongst them, jumping up on th running boards, and peering in — although the blinds were down. We were amazed and impressed by the opulence of the interiors. Although they were there for so long, no damage was done.
Travelling anywhere was difficult. Trains were full of troops and queues were endless. All signposts had been removed, so cycling anywhere became a guessing game.
There were highlights. My cousin came from America bringing sweets for me and whisky for my father. This caused astonishment. We had sweet coupons, of course, but very rarely were there any to buy. Our Australian relatives sent food parcels stitched into white linen. Once, there was a tin of salmon. This was a red-letter day.
Forces uniforms impacted on fashion. Shoulder bags became all the rage. I was interested in these things. I was fourteen by the time the war ended, and growing up.

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