War Time Reminiscences, a lucky move!

War time reminiscences

Brought up in Jersey, I was lucky that my father was given the parish of Holdenhurst on the south coast of England, just six months before war was declared, for all non Jersey born clergy were sent to concentration camps in Germany, following the invasion of the Channel Isles. Some families left the Channel Isles before war was declared but with his ministry, I doubt if we would have left had he still been working within the church there.

The old Victorian vicarage, just a few miles from the centre of Bournemouth, had no gas or electricity, and our first task was to get power installed, but this led to an unexpected outcome. Because we had power, the Ministry of Defence commandeered the field which bordered our garden for a search light battery, an army camp was established and army vehicles were parked up our drive as the mature trees hid them from sight. What a wonderful playground for a six-year old!

The garden hedge was often breached when the officer’s batman came asking for hot water “for the officer’s shaving water”! I was something of a camp mascot, and got the nick name “Little ‘un.”

We became very friendly with the Scottish officer, and remained in contact until the 1980s. Our first holiday after the war was with him in Glasgow. He often spent his short leaves with us as it would have taken too long to journey up to Glasgow.

We dug for victory and had evacuees, one a Burmese boy from London and the other from Southampton. I remember the WRVS woman bringing the two boys to our house and said, rather than asked, “You’ll take them both.” Apparently the little Burmese boy had been rejected by many.

My father, as well as his church duties, was the army chaplain and in charge of the fire watching team. Some children in the village were sent to Canada for their safety, but alas one of the transport ships was torpedoed with great loss of life.

We watched “dog fights” during the Battle of Britain, and were aware of army manoeuvres in the countryside nearby. The beach along the south coast was out of bounds and guarded with steel anti tank traps, pill boxes, large wooden posts sunk vertically into the sand and miles of barbed wire. We used to swim in the nearby river, made more dangerous for us children by the army tanks which practiced river crossings. After the war, when the beach was open, it was still very dangerous, for the metal tank traps were sawn off at sand level, and the sharp edges cut our feet. I remember swimming out to one of the posts, grabbed it, and as a wave lifted me up, the barnacle encrusted post scratched me badly. When I returned to the beach I was streaming with blood.

Children were taught that when a siren sounded they should either stay where they were, or if near home, to return home pronto!Once, I was cycling home as quickly as I could, misjudged the entrance to the drive, hit the wall and bashed my forehead. Dad dealt with the injury with one of the field dressings provided. An ARP warden visited and was aghast that I “should be playing with bandages provided for war casualties.” Without a word, dad removed the bandage, allowing the ARP officer to see that I was a casualty of war.

One night a Germany plane dropped bombs on the army camp site to extinguish the search light. Our house was badly damaged. The blast smashed every window, partly demolished the roof, caused the panels of the doors to be blown inwards or outwards and sometimes both, made the fireplaces jump into the middle of the rooms, but none of us suffered a scratch. A pan of porridge was made so that we would have something warm inside to counteract the shock. My mother was always so practical. My brother scoured the garden for bits of shrapnel, souvenirs that he could show his school pals. My elder sister made sure that the hideous old fireplaces could not be reinstalled, by bashing them with a hammer. Rumours flew round the village, facts becoming distorted like Chinese whispers “The vicarage has been bombed …. The vicar’s been bombed … the vicar’s been killed … etc. We even had the distrit nurse coming to give her condolences Dad countered these rumours by riding his bike round the parish, greeting astonished parishioners with a wave.

During the war it was possible to get some letters to friends in Jersey, and from them. All the letters were censored by the German authorities, and words were cut out. Being good at crosswords it was sometimes quite easy to guess the meaning. A game of cat and mouse followed. Dad would write sentences such as “Ben is now quite big and is doing well.” This was not referring to his son, but to Big Ben in London, giving the news that England was OK. This news got through uncensored.

The blackout, a problem in many houses was also a problem to the New Forest ponies. Then as now they roam free, and the few vehicles that were allowed on the roads at night had their headlights blacked out except for a small cross which provided only a glimmer of light. Ponies were at great risk. The solution was to paint ponies with broad stripes of fluorescent white paint. It looked as if zebras roamed the forest.

After the war, in place of evacuees people in the area were asked to look after children from Holland who were all but starving following the battle at Arnhem. We had a little girl Anna. She would eat everything available, fearful, I suppose that there might not be another meal.

At the end of their stay, which I think was for several months, there was a farewell party. The Dutch children sang these words set to the tune of Lili Marlene.

Dear English children
We thank you very much.
You are here as English
We are here as Dutch.
When we go back to the Netherlands
We’ll no forget
What you’ve done for us.
We will remember you.
We will remember you.

I’ve not forgotten Anna,DenBoer but I do wonder what happened to her. I was twelve when the war ended and she must have been much the same age.

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