Wartime Memories

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Vijiha Bashir, at BBC Scotland on behalf of Duncan Cree from Paisley and has been added to the site with the permission of Johnstone History Society. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Just after 3rd September 1939 I received the ‘Call-up’ brown envelope with railway tickets to report to Blandford Barracks in Southern England, but when leaving the house for the railway station, I received a cancellation telegram ordering me to stand by for further orders.

Along with a train full of Call-ups and put through a crash course by a Scots Guard Sergeant and squad at Polmont, the lads with initials A to P (I think) were posted to searchlights on the Fife Coast and then later to Ballykinlar (World End Company) Northern Ireland, to finally be Mobile Light Ack Ack Gunners, mostly along the Southern England Coastline. After being bombed and machine gunned by German planes on Fife Coast, we welcomed the chance to return fire.

I think Churchill was on the mark when he said “Humour won the war” and with your mates coming from all walks of life things were never dull. Like the soldier asking young officer permission to see the Intelligent Officer. “You mean the Intelligence Officer”. For your information the Army doesn’t have any Intelligent Officers”.

Not that our officers were dim. I remember one Officer interrupting a dull gas lecture to say that word had come through that the Germans had perfected a new type of bullet which doesn’t kill the soldier, but enters his A.B 64 Pay Book and kills his next of kin.

We had the ‘odd’ character who changed the name of his kinfolk to that of the sergeant he did not like in hut NO.3 and another cunning lad directed the bullet the chase after Hitler somewhere in Germany.

A lad from the War Department usually unwound in his favourite night-club which was also becoming a favourite place of the Americans. Because of the huge numbers he soon was being refused entry. Someone mentioned this predicament to Churchill who suggested the lad carry a banjo and get admitted a member of the band.

One stormy night of the Fife Coast there were loud explosions shaking out huts and breaking some of the windows. The alarm was raised and we were quickly organised. Lying in line along the hill top with our rifles and five rounds pointing to the shore, mid the flashes and explosions, being in the front line to tackle the invasion. With the morning light came the welcome news that the fierce storm had mines breaking free and exploding all along the coastline. A naval party arrived to make safe some unexploded mines among the rocks before high tide came in and baffled us by saying they didn’t fancy our jobs, which they considered were too dangerous with the enemy planes paying the odd visits, and they meant it!

Different languages could confuse, as the new English lads found out when they were drilled by an old Fife miner who roared out the order, ‘ABOOT BURL’ In Germany, parcels coming for the troops from home were printed with the word GIFT this was so that cheaper postage rates would be paid, but it worried German Workers — GIFT being the German word for poison. The Flemish in Holland suited us, like being invited to “Kommin’ ben the hoose”. Then other weel kent words like the Kirk, Keek — to look, brig — bridge, etc, totally confusing our English mates.

At a camp site outside St Andrews a troop of Polish soldiers moved into a nearby barn. Next morning my mate Jimmy Gibson waved over to a young Pole at their door, staring glumly at the falling snow. “Good Morning, snow not good”? Said Jimmy “Aye yer right pal — Gie ye the boke so it wid”. Was the retort. Jimmy was startled. “You’ve picked up the language quick — how come”? He asked. “Aw, am fae Bellshill, no Poland, a wis only a wean when me folk emigrated here tae Scotland — naybody thought tae get me naturalised, and a’ve landit wi this mob. Ah canny speak Polish and their just pickin up English”. I don’t know how the poor lad fared, but our major did try to get him transferred and we wished him luck.

In Germany for some reason, I was at the camps main entrance with an old German Policeman. He greeted me with “English”? Then appeared horrified when I replied “Schotlander” so between Pidgin German/Scottish and hand signals, I got his story, “First a 1st War ‘soldaten’ then a wee sodjer wearing the ‘rook’ (Kilt) bowly legged? Ya Ya! Rifle and Bayonet? Ya Ya! Runny at him? Ya Ya”! Then he opened his jacket, pulled up his shirt and showed me two large bayonet wounds. I got the picture.

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