Dads Army Part3 by glenpet

Dads Army Part 3 by Glenpet

He came into the house and looked straight at Mum with a hurt look on his face bleating, “Aye Nellie, who do you think they’ve got as the sergeant in charge, ruddy Fletcher the butcher on Riddings Road, God Almighty, what next?” “You’re a bit upset George.” Muriel burst into laughter, as they looked at Dad’s gloomy face.
This made him worse tempered, so he searched his pockets for his comforter; his pipe and tobacco, muttering. “It’s alright for you to be laughing, but it was me who created about last weeks joint saying I’d never enter his blooming shop again. His finger is going twenty to the dozen to fill his pipe. “Oh yes! He’ll right enjoy putting me through hell and back now won’t he?”
Dad strikes a match. “Why did you join then”, asks Mum with a giggle. The pipe is taken from his mouth. “I’d already signed up with the- Oh Hell and damnation,” the match, now at the end of its useful life burns his fingers, “the ruddy officer hadn’t I. Then he takes us into the other room, and there he was the smug bugger, whispering something to the other officer sat next to him. I bet it was something about me.” Mum told him he was ‘parynod’ or something like that.
Dad has had enough for tonight; the unsympathetic home coming wasn’t what he’d expected from his nearest and dearest. He stormed out of the kitchen muttering, “I don’t know, you’re trying to do your duty and all you ge.”… We didn’t hear the rest as he slammed the door shut behind him.
Dad had just turned thirty-seven in the July of 1939, and wanting to do his "BIT", he’d joined the Home Guard. I went into the scullery for a drink off water and I heard Mum say to Muriel, “Well, the look on his face, just like a little boy, the big soft thing.”
One evening Mum had gone to play Whist, Dad and I listened to the wireless; frequently being interrupted by “Germany Calling, Germany Calling.” This was a propaganda broadcast by Lord Haw Haw (William Joyce) a former member of the British Nazi leader Oswald Mosley; telling us we would loose the war. This twaddle inspired Dad to do a bit of army drill, using the sweeping brush as a rifle.
Attention, stand at ease, left turn, right turn, about turn, until things got serious with the brush. Brush in hand he’s standing at ease, he then shouts “Har'tention, shoulder h’arms, pre—sent-a h’arms, shoulder h’arms and marches up and down the living room.
Hearing Mum close the front door he halts, and stands to attention and awaits her entrance. As she enters he gave her a “Pre--asent h’arms,” in true Sergeant Major fashion to impress her. Oh dear, he did that alright, but he wasn’t stood in the right place at all; right under the light fitting. The mottled glass globe was shattered, and leaving three small pieces of glass each swinging on their respective chains.
Even I could tell Mum was not pleased, Dad was dumfounded. "Go and get the dust pan and brush and clear up this mess. Now you’re going to have to buy another globe, you stupid fool, and what are you doing up at this time?" She hurled at me, "Get up to bed right now.”
I didn't hang about for a goodnight kiss I can assure you, luckily I had my pyjamas and dressing gown on ready or Dad might have copped out further. So, we endured a bare bulb for a few weeks until Dad could afford to buy another globe. Eventually the incident became a regular topic of conversation and much later became something to laugh about.
The best story Dad told happened after he had been issued with an old .303 rifle. The platoon was going on a training exercise, night manoeuvres. The office briefed them telling them that they had to crouch low beside the hedges whilst crossing the fields, and not to be seen by Sgt. Fletcher. Then to encourage the men he told them. “Remember men, one day you might be grateful for this exercise. Good luck and I’ll see you next week.”
Dad said the night was pitch black with heavy cloud cover, and threatening rain. Sgt. Fletcher marched them out into the countryside to the starting point. Dad thinks ‘now for it’. “Right you lot, you know what’s expected of you, right, now get on with it.”
They’d crossed two fields getting their feet wet in a ditch, eventually arriving at the last field and climbing the gate they all stood around; this was the big test. Cross quickly he said, and find the style onto a road. “Can’t see a ruddy thing in this light never mind a style”, say’s one fed up man, “can’t use a torch either, nor a match, ruddy Fletcher.” They can’t see the all the boundaries never mind any hint of a gap in the hedge it’s so dark.
“We’ll have to split up,” someone suggested, but remember, Sarge warned, “I’ll be watching you, and that style, and counting you lot over, so watch it.” He was trying to imitate him.
Off they went showing caution; they didn't know what Sgt. Fletcher was going to do. He was fond of surprises. “Keeps you on your toes, smartens you lot up, by God you need it,” he’d shout. They hadn’t gone far when all of a sudden, gun fire. Without hesitation Dad said they all dropped face down. A voice, muffled by mud says. “Bloody Hell the bugger’s firing a machine gun at us.” Soon silence reigned.
After getting over their near heart attack’s they kept hearing sounds, like heavy breathing, and muffled footsteps, when they stopped all was still and quiet: Very scary. Ghostly shadows caused by dark clouds scuttling across the sky adding to the eerie atmosphere, didn’t help.
By now they were all very nervous, and one of the men voiced the opinion that it could probably be Fletcher up to his tricks. This remark didn’t dispel any of their fears and they just hoped that the other side of this field came quick.
In a heavy whisper a man shouts “Found it,” this floated across to their waiting ears. With that news they all ran quickly in the direction of the voice. It turned into a race, to get there first. This resulted in utter chaos; there were eleven men in the party, when Dad got there two were already over the style, but it didn’t help because they carried gas masks and rucksacks, and rifles on their shoulders, now they were all scrambling over each other. Eventually a resemblance of order returned, and the men climbed the style. As the last man readied himself to climb the steps into safety, the sounds got closer and closer.
"What is it?” He cried in a hysterical voice, panicking he slipped of the first step knocking his tin hat askew as he scramble to safety. At the moment of reaching the top step a sudden push in his back sent him tumbling over the style into the ditch. He heard laughing, as he regained his senses and looked up into the face of a cart horse looking down at him tossing its head as it neighed, as if to say, “Serves you lot right for disturbing my peace.”
Their euphoria was short lived, they’d forgotten about Sgt. Fletcher. “You lot took your ruddy time didn’t you? Had a picnic did you? Looks like you’ve been enjoying a mud bath. Enjoy the fire crackers, didn’t you?” Then he splits his sides with laughter. Dad said they felt like lynching him from the nearest tree. “Right fall in before I freeze to death, if I do I’ll be back to haunt you.” The man next to Dad said, “I bet you would an all.” They all laughed, even Sgt. Fletcher.
Not long after Dad was called up. He joined the army on 28th August 1941. A few months older and he would have been exempt from service. His brother, Frank, and Uncle Geoffrey were already in the forces. Dads other brother Arthur was exempt; he was an engineer, so he stayed at home and worked on munitions.
After square bashing, Dad was moved to a camp where he did his training to be a driver in the Royal Army Service Corps. When he came home on leave he told Mum he was going back to another camp, to train to drive the ‘big stuff’ as he called it.
Sometimes when Dad wrote to Mum he drew me a picture of the type of vehicle he was driving. One was a large Water carrier, like a big petrol tanker, another was a tank transporter that had sixteen wheels; he told me it was capable of carrying one of the largest battle tanks.
It was an announcement on the wireless and in the newspapers that Winston Churchill was commandeering metal railings, gates and all such items that were not serving a vital purpose.
Years later Mum told us that Granddad Scott was very upset when Alexandra Park gates were taken, he thought they were a work of art. After the war they were found in great masses rusting away on large dumps up and down the country. But during the war the people thought they were contributing — the official reason anyway.
One request that spurred Harry and me into action was the appeal for silver foil; known as silver paper. Armed with an old Co-op paper carrier bag we set forth on our mission. First we called on people in our avenue, very soon we had to go and dump a heavy load in Harry’s garage.
Next, we did Leicester Avenue. One lady who couldn’t hear very well gave us half-a-crown, trying to explain we were collecting silver paper she kept saying “No its alright, you take it for the war.” As we walked away Harry said, “What’ll we do with it?” I think we kept it; well we couldn't put it with the silver paper could we?
One distinguished gentleman, kept asking us a lot of questions, all about what we were doing, and where did we get the authority from. When we asked what authority was he sighed and said “Permission boys, permission,” as he shook his head in disbelief. Then he wanted to know where we had to take it all, to the public library on Park Road we told him. Had we convinced him that it was all legal? Going back in the house he was gone for ages. Harry looked at me and said in a low whisper, “Wonder what eez doin?” “Bet he phones the police or the library,” I reply in a low whisper.
He eventually reappeared staggering up the hall carrying a large cardboard box, we could tell he was pleased to put down, as he placed his hand in the small of his back and straitened up with a heavy sigh.
After spending some minutes undoing the knot on the string he eventually opened it up, with a reluctant pause, he took out a few of the many pads to show us. They were really lovely; all kinds of foil paper, gold, silver, and a kaleidoscope of colours, they were very beautiful.
Harry and I stood looking in wonder, also at the size of the box; it was enormous and very heavy. He had only shown us a very small amount of his collection.
We left our carrier bag in his porch whilst we carried the box between us to Harry’s garage. This short walk involved frequent stops as we rested the box on many a garden wall. As we put the box on the garage floor I said to Harry. “They could have been his prized collection, because he seemed sorry to part with them?” We had a good look through them wishing we could keep some, even going and asking if he wanted them back. But we decided they had to join the rest of the collection.
When we‘d eventually finished our collecting we had a heavy load to take. Harry thought of asking Mr. Tattersall to run it all round in his car but we wanted to do it ourselves. We couldn’t think of any lady who would trust us with a pram in case they didn’t get the wheels back. “Let’s borrow a wheel barrow.” I said. So we spent a full hour one afternoon walking round and looking into gardens for one.
We had no luck so reluctantly we start to walk home down Arderne Road; suddenly we see it, one standing up against the wall of the house. Now we stand and look at each other, we know what the other is thinking.
Yes, who’s going to ask for it? With our arms round each others shoulders we walk up to the front door. Harry says “Go on then, knock on the door!” My hand starts the journey up to the knocker, I hesitate, then casting caution to the wind I grasp the knocker and knock. There’s no one in I say, half relieved, we are just turning to make our way out when the front door opens. “Yes, what can I do for you two boy’s?”
“P...p...ple-e-ase c...c...can …w…w...we... b...borrow, your w…w… Harry, my saviour interrupts. “Your Wheel barrow please.” “What on earth would you want that for?” Harry explains our predicament, and yes, she agrees. Soon our heavy load is sitting in the barrow, it’s a bit wobbly and squeaky as Harry pushes it up his garden path and out onto the avenue. Luckily the library was only three hundred yards away.
We take turns in pushing it as its, squeaking gets worse but we eventually park our gift out side the entrance of the library. Someone has seen and heard us coming up the drive quickly appears to tell us. “Not in here, round the side please, you’ll see a hut, Mr Granger should be there to meet you and take your collection.” So having had a little rest we squeak our way round, and when we get outside the hut Mr Granger appears.
“My goodness, you have been busy. We’ll have to give you two a certificate each you deserve them. Pushing our luck Harry say’s. “Could we have a drink of water please?” “I think you can have a glass of lemonade and some oil for that wheel.” Suitably refreshed we stand between the shafts of the wheel barrow. Ok says Harry you push it first then and places the certificates in the barrow. After giving the kind lady her, un-squeaky barrow back, with our thanks we head for home.
We’ll have to go and show that man on Leicester Avenue our certificates,” says I. Harry nods his agreement and adds, “Then he’ll believe us proper!”
Winnie and our Muriel organised a concert to be performed in Monks' garage; this meant the car had to be put out onto the drive whilst rehearsals took place. Posters were made and pinned up on the telegraph poles, tickets were sold, some people couldn’t come but bought tickets anyway to help the war effort and support the girls.
Sydney made a few ‘props’ and many people promised the loan of chairs. The curtains, made from all sorts of material by some of the Mums had been hung a few days before. Harry and I were entrusted with the job of opening and closing them by holding a curtain each and walking towards each other and trying to keep out of sight. But we didn’t, he, he!
On the morning of the performance, the promised chairs were put in place ready for the show. Ticket sales had gone very well, which meant they gave two performances. This included a short play performed by Muriel, Winnie, and Dawn Clifford along with another friend of theirs. A couple of sketches were performed, many songs sung and Winnie and Muriel had to sing "In Room 504" for my Auntie Babs or she had threatened that she wouldn't come. The song had romantic memories for her of her Honeymoon, this was blackmail, but it was all taken in good fun. I recited a little poem about a car, I can only remember one line, it went like this. “I don’t know, I can’t tell, me press the button, and it went like Hell.” During the concert, would you believe Harry and I sung our version of ‘I’ll take you Home again Kathleen’.
Quite a lot of money was raised for the War Effort and all said that the girls had done a first class job. The garage was cleared up and the car put back in its place and things returned to normality.
Harry’s Dad’s car played a multitude of parts for the two of us, one day it would be a Spitfire or a Lancaster bomber, another day a battle ship or a submarine and last but not least the faithful old bus or charabanc.

From ‘TIMPERLEY BOY’ by Peter Scott - Published by Churnet Valley Books Leek Staffordshire

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