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An autobiography of a Radio Officer in the British Merchant Navy during World War II
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Air-Raids and Preparing to go to Sea
In late August 1939, our family was on holiday in the north of England. The results of my sitting for the School Certificate came through. I had failed miserably, even to the extent that one of my favourite subjects did not even produce a pass mark. My parents, whilst sympathetic, were obviously anything but happy with the result. I couldn't fathom out where I had gone wrong - I had studied hard, was confident, and by all expectations should have obtained a reasonable pass.
A family council of war decided that I must go back to school and have another crack at the exam due to be held in December. Without a School Certificate there would be no progressing to the Higher School Certificate and subsequently University for a BSC. Without qualifications the prospects of securing employment were remote. After all, the Great Depression had hardly sunk over the horizon, and many firms wouldn't take you on as an office-boy unless you held a degree. I was feeling pretty gloomy and depressed about the whole thing. Somehow I had let the side down, and that was awful.
The 3rd of September came, and with it the Declaration of War on Germany. Instant excitement and some activity. Dad would return home next morning and start preparing the black-out precautions for our house. Mum and I together with my brother and three year old sister would follow twenty four hours later.
This we did and found that Dad had procured a stirrup pump for use in fighting fires, sticky tape to put on the windows to check flying glass, laundry blue bags to stain some windows blue and reduce their ability to transmit light and yards and yards of black cloth to make light proof curtains.
Mum set to work on the sewing machine aided by my brother and me. The old "Singer" was a hand driven model, so, if we youngsters supplied the "horsepower", Mum had two free hands to guide the cloth. No fancy needle work, just straight - well almost - seams and hems.
As soon as the curtains were finished, Dad set about putting them up. The bathroom window was quickly fixed. Dad had used it as a photographic darkroom years ago, and still had the folding wooden covers that blocked all incoming and outgoing light. When we were not turning the handle on the sewing machine, my brother and I were busy putting sticky tape on the window panes in criss-cross patterns.
Within weeks this tape and the glass were covered with a far superior preventative gauze sheet impregnated with size or some such glue. Cut a sheet of this gauze to fit a window pane, dunk it in water to soften the glue and then quickly slosh it on to the glass, and press it firmly into place. Until it had dried properly it smelt revolting. Still, it worked very well and later served its purpose by stopping splintered glass from flying when whole windows and their frames were blasted into the rooms.
The laundry blue bags were used to paint the larder and a small storeroom's windows. These two rooms had no lights fitted in them and it was unlikely that they would be used at night.
Mum noticed one interesting fact. Flies, attracted by the smell of food would frequently fly into the larder in the hope of getting a free feed. Now the blue light coming into the room apparently acted as a deterrent and the flies no longer made their forays. To check this, we caught a few flies, put them in a glass jar and released them in the pantry. They promptly flew out of the room via the doorway and headed for the bright outdoors.
There had been rumours of forthcoming warfare for some considerable time, so Mum had taken the precaution of gradually laying in stocks of tinned and dry provisions. This handy cache of food proved to be invaluable, for when rationing got into full swing so many foodstuffs were no longer attainable and luxuries were non-existent. On special occasions such as Christmas Day or someone's birthday, Mum would go to her store and produce, as a treat, "A fatted tin to be killed" in recognition of the day. A large tin of fruit salad would turn a common place meal into a banquet, and would be talked about for days afterwards.
In the laundry there was a gas-fired copper, an enormous hand turned mangle, and three dolly tubs. Two of these tubs were big wooden barrels, while the third, of more modern vintage, was made from galvanised iron. Their normal function was for use in soaking the washing prior to it being boiled in the copper, and then for rinsing and blueing the "whites".
The dolly was a wooden three legged device - rather like a milking stool attached to a long handle with a cross-bar at the top. Put your washing in the water in the dolly tub, pop the stool end of the dolly into the water and rotate it by means of the cross-bar - left to right, right to left, left to right etc. etc, until you felt sufficient agitation had been accomplished and the washing was ready for the next stage. This somewhat primitive device must have been the forerunner for mechanical washing machines.
But now, the dolly tubs, the copper, and all available buckets were to serve an additional purpose. They were kept at all times filled with water, ready to fight fires. Even if the water supplies did not fail, you could by scooping a bucket into a dolly tub filled with water, fill it far faster than by the conventional method via a tap.
Dad received a letter from the Headmaster of my school in Harrogate. The government had commandeered the school buildings for purposes unspecified and the school was to move itself, lock stock and barrel to a priory out on the Yorkshire moors. Would Dad please send me, a senior student, back to school early for the purpose of setting up the school in the new premises. I was to report to Newborough Priory A.S.A.P.
On arrival there I found the priory to be no longer used for religious purposes, but was an enormous stately manor with countless rooms. An imposing carriage way, flanked by lawns on which peacocks strutted about, led through an archway into the courtyard and access to the main building.
Masters and domestics were already in attendance together with some of the students. All were working flat out unloading furniture vans. All the paraphernalia for a boarding school was arriving in those vans. Beds; mattresses; linen; desks; blackboards; books; laboratory equipment; chemicals; dining room tables and benches; sporting equipment; cooking utensils; crockery; cutlery etc., etc. What a vast collection of items, tons and tons of it. The staff must have been busy, for they had already decided which downstairs rooms were to be used for each class and which upstairs rooms were to be dormitories or masters' studies cum sleeping quarters.
In no time flat I was shown which dormitory I was to be in charge of, and quickly changed into my rugger gear to save my school uniform from becoming soiled. I then joined the other boys in emptying the furniture vans.
First move was to get all the kitchen and dining room gear into location. If we couldn't get the cook and his crew set up, we were not going to eat. That situation, as any schoolboy knows, would be intolerable, so there was no shortage of effort in getting the cook settled in place.
Next on the timetable was to get the dormitories set up so that we would have somewhere to rest, after what was going to be a long tiring day.
Boys were allocated to different tasks and that great conglomeration of furniture and equipment slowly but steadily, bit by bit, moved indoors. As soon as a van was empty, it headed off for another load. Back at the old school building was another group of masters and boys busy packing and loading. Some days later, once they had got everything packed, they all bundled into masters' cars and joined us in unpacking and setting up the school.
I was lucky, for after all the more urgent work had been done, I and a couple of other lads were given the task of setting up the laboratory. Instead of having a biology lab, physics lab and chemical lab, we were to make do with just the one big room. The room selected turned out to be a huge disused laundry above what had been a coach house many years gone by.
The old laundry badly needed sweeping out and cleaning. Peacocks had used it as their roost for years and their deposits were all over the floor and laundry equipment. The heavy laundry machinery we dismantled and reassembled at one end of the room, but some of the tables and other gear we were able to carry downstairs and store in another room.
Three of us took one of the heavy tables downstairs with the help of a master. The master and one boy were holding the lower end of the table, yours truly and a third boy had the top end under control. Just as the master opened his mouth to give a manoeuvring instruction as we negotiated a corner on the staircase, a huge dried lump of peacock's deposit decided to become detached from the table's surface and slid straight into the unfortunate man's mouth. We couldn't put the table down on the staircase and for some reason the master was unable to spit out the unwholesome mouthful. We continued down the staircase, three of us barely able to hold on to the table for laughter, while the fourth member of the party with bulging eyes made "gah gah" noises while we struggled down to ground level. As soon as we had the table safely down, the master got rid of the choking mass and headed for the nearest water tap.
We had the school basically operational in less than a week, the rest of the boys arrived and term commenced. In December I resat the School Certificate exam and this time I was successful.
The problem then was what to do next. I wanted to get into the Air Force and become a fighter pilot. I could pass all the qualifications except one - I was too young! So, Dad decided that the best thing for me to do, was to go back to school next term and start studying for the Higher School Certificate. This I did, but it was no good. The government interned two of the senior language masters and took away the senior science and maths masters for research work. That left me practically without any instructors and eventually we reached a stage where I was living at school and doing correspondence courses at my father's expense.
Sometimes I and other senior boys were teaching junior classes when the staff shortages were really acute. Enough was enough and I gave school away at the end of term and went home.
I was itching to get into action, but I was still unable to get past the barrier of the date on my birth certificate. It was not long before an idea began to gel.
Less than a quarter of a mile from our house was the Liverpool Wireless College, where one could learn how to send and receive the morse code and understand the mysteries of the internals of wireless receivers and transmitters. Once you obtained your Certificate of Proficiency - in about six months time - you could become a Radio Officer in the Merchant Navy. No problems with age in that outfit.
Ships that normally carried one Radio Officer in peace time were now carrying three R/Os if they were available, so there was quite a demand for new recruits. It took me longer than six months to get my ticket, because Jerry twice got into the act. Firstly, by dropping a huge landmine right between the college and a neighbouring bank he successfully demolished both. Secondly some weeks later he put me out of action with a bomb that made our house uninhabitable. There was a third delay when I tripped on a rug in my grandmother's kitchen and almost fell into a coal fired range. To save myself I put both hands down on to the hot plates. There was a sizzling sound and a lovely aroma of cooking. However, I don't recommend the practice, it took a couple of weeks before I was able to hold a pencil in my bandaged hands or to use a telegraphist's key.
The landmine that blew up the Wireless College was one of many that the Germans had captured at Dunkirk from the British. The mines were large vertical cylinders containing some hundreds of pounds of explosive. The Germans had modified the mines for use by aircraft by fitting them with huge parachutes and by attaching a long probe, pointing downwards, from the bottom of the cylinder. Once the probe touched something solid the mine detonated.
From the receiver's point of view they were awesome beasts indeed. We soon learned that when a mine was released from an aircraft, there was a strange rushing noise as the parachute flapped violently as it filled with air. This was followed by a loud "crack" as the 'chute finally filled with air and took the sudden strain and slowed the mine's descent. Then, apart from the drone of the departing aircraft, all would be quiet as the mine drifted downwards. If it passed close enough overhead, swinging like a slow pendulum beneath the 'chute, it was possible to hear a slow "wooof" - "wooof" sighing sound as air spilled from the canopy of the slowly oscillating 'chute.
Sometimes you could see a mine drifting overhead, silhouetted against the clouds glowing with the reflected light of fires. On sighting a mine, the procedure was to yell "MINE!!" followed by an indication of the direction it was heading. The cry would be taken up by other wardens as soon as they got a sighting. Since there was nothing we could do to stop the mine, all we could do was to warn others of what they were about to receive and give them a chance to take cover.
I saw the explosion that wrecked the Wireless College. Mum and Dad had gone to the pictures, my brother and sister had long since been evacuated to the country, so I was alone in our house. An air-raid had started and as it was beginning to get a bit rough, I was doing the rounds of the house, opening the windows in order to reduce the pressure against them should there be any nearby blast.
I was opening a window in my parents' bedroom when a huge lurid red coloured explosion lit up the sky. There was a vast amount of debris to be seen in black silhouette sailing through the air. Not the time to stand and stare. I ducked down below the window and awaited the concussion. I only had a moment to wait. The noise of the explosion was very loud, but slow and prolonged quite unlike any others I had heard.
The blast slammed the bedroom door shut and the shock waves shook the building. Windows and crockery rattled. I took a peep out of the window. No fire had broken out, but there was a huge cloud of dust settling down.
Later, when my parents came home, they had had to walk, as the trams had stopped, they were unaware of what had happened. Dad agreed that I should go and see what the damage was. It didn't take me long to find out. The College and the bank were gone along with the roofs and upper stories of some twenty or so houses. I doubt if there would have been an intact window within 200 yards of the centre of the explosion.
As good luck would have it, all the evening class students had left the building five minutes before the mine landed. Bad luck was there too. One instructor had stayed behind to lock up, he had just gone down into the cellar to get his bicycle for the journey home when the mine landed. He did not survive.
Next day there were workmen busy picking over and sieving the rubble that had been the bank. Bank officers were supervising their labours while they all searched for cash boxes and the contents of the vaults.
It took but a few days for the College to be set up in a three storey house and classes resumed.
From 1st to 8th May 1941 Greater Liverpool suffered eight successive nights of air-raids. 1433 persons were killed, 1065 seriously injured, and 51,000 people were rendered homeless.
Hitler had ordered the Luftwaffe to flatten Liverpool in early May before he sent his planes to attack the Russians some five or six weeks later. The Luftwaffe tried very hard, did an enormous amount of damage, but did not succeed in putting the Port of Liverpool out of action, nor did it break the spirit the Liverpudlians. I am very proud to have played a small part in Liverpool's defence.
I was a volunteer Civil Defence Cadet, and as such had quickly climbed up the ranks to become a Physical Training Instructor. This was right up my alley, for at school I had been captain of the 1st Rugby XV, captain of the 1st Cricket XI, Victor Ludorum in Athletics and I had my full gymnastic colours. After being put through a gymnastic course at Liverpool University, my task was to improve the physical fitness of other lads who were too young for the Forces, but were mature enough to carry out first aid; rescue work; traffic control; fire fighting; unexploded bomb location and generally deal with the 1001 jobs that present themselves during a raid.
One afternoon each weekend our group of cadets met at a school where we were lectured on first aid; gas drill; rescue techniques; fire fighting etc., and were given the latest information on anything new and nasty that Jerry might have come up with, ie exploding incendiary bombs and butterfly bombs.
I was one of the first to encounter an exploding incendiary bomb. We had a large cemetery at the back of our house and at the far side of the cemetery was a hospital complex with a tall industrial type brick chimney stack, tram sheds and a garbage waste incinerator also with a tall smoke stack. From the air it must have presented a tempting target. Frequently Jerry, when starting his raids would drop hundreds of incendiary bombs into this area in the hope of starting fires which would serve as beacons for the heavy bombers. These big planes would be arriving a little later. Down below we were determined that he should have no such luck.
At the first swish, rattle, clank and plonk of incoming incendiary bombs, those that could, went out and dealt with them. The ones in the street were easy, you just dropped a small sandbag on them and let them fizzle away under the sand. These were the ones for little kids and grandmas to deal with. Bombs in the roof cavity or through the windows were more awkward. Sometimes, if one penetrated the room you were in, it was possible to pick it up by the tail before it got well alight and toss it outside. Otherwise it had to be scooped or shovelled up and taken outside while someone else put out such fires it might have started with a stirrup pump. Speed was the essence. Kill a fire while it's a pup. Prevent a real fire from developing in your area and with any luck your neck of the woods might not get a pasting that night.
Now, I and a couple of others used to deal with those incendiary bombs that fell into the cemetery. The area was large, but we could all run pretty fast so it usually didn't take us more than five minutes to put out a couple of dozen bombs and any small grass fires that might have started up.
The procedure was simple. When the warning sirens sounded, my father and I placed two step ladders, one on each side of the 7 foot cemetery wall so that climbing into the cemetery was easy. A spade was taken over the wall and placed by the ladder. If incendiary bombs fell in the cemetery, I used to quickly get over the wall, grab the spade and run to the nearest bomb. They gave off quite a lot of light, so you could pick your way between the grave stones without much bother. On reaching the bomb, if you were lucky, it would be sticking in the earth, tail pointing skyward. All you had to do was lift your spade above your head, swing it down and with the flat of the blade drive the bomb into the earth, stamp any bits of burning thermite into the ground and go hunting for the next bomb.
One night, just as I was approaching my second bomb, I noticed another bomb some 30 yards away explode in a shower of sparks. While I was dealing with the second bomb, two more bombs also exploded. With the flash of the last one I could see a firefighter ducking for cover. Having dealt with the second bomb I went to the site where one of the bombs had exploded. Bits of burning thermite were scattered over an area of several square yards. I buried the bits and left to deal with the remaining bombs.
Later I reported to the O.I.C. at my fire station and told him of the odd behaviour of the bombs. He had received other similar reports. So, from then on we had to be a bit cagey when approaching a bomb by using a metal dustbin-lid as a shield. A bin lid was fine if you were not quite on top of a bomb when its delaying fuse blew. The lid would stop the flying bits of molten magnesium and thermite. However, if you were a yard off when she exploded, the blast left you holding the handle with some surrounding metal. The rest of the lid in horrid jagged bits along with the burning thermite either passed you by or embedded itself in your anatomy. I was told that the blast pressure against the bin lid could dislocate your arm or shoulder. Hardly surprising since the exploding charge was about half that of a hand-grenade. From then on, kids generally didn't deal with incendiary bombs and grandmothers were distinctly less enthusiastic about tackling them.
Jerry didn't come down in the last shower. He didn't waste explosives in all the bombs. Just one in ten would explode so that you could figure the odds on what your chances were of picking a lively one. To make it more interesting he sometimes varied the odds to one in five or thereabouts. Your guess as to when he changed the odds.
Back to the cadets at the school. Most of my group came from a fairly tough and slightly under privileged environment. They had attended, or were attending this Council school and knew the area well. A number of them were big and tall and acted tough. A heavy overcoat, white muffler and a cloth cap was their usual outer garb in winter time. They found out that I was a toff who had gone to a posh boarding school and therefore they had no love for me.
We were all issued with a pair of sandshoes, shorts, a beret and an armband. The colour and stripes on the latter indicating your rank and/or special ability. Eg., First Aid, Rescue Party, P.T. Instructor etc.
Now, this tough bunch of lads were not a bit keen to do any physical jerks, even less keen to get into shorts and sandshoes, it being winter time when I first encountered them. So, I wasn't exactly the flavour of the month by the time I had practically forced them through their required exercises. I had noticed one thing - strip them of their padded overcoats and they were mostly skinny and not of good physique. At a pinch I could take several on. So, I had a bright idea. I put it to them that if they were to get through the hated exercises quickly and well, without mucking about, we would have a game like they had never had before. Two teams, a wooden pillar at each end of the courtyard to be knocked over with a soccer ball. NO REAL RULES. You could run with the ball; pass it as you wished; kick it; punch it; do what you liked with it and that went for the opposition as well - you could tackle; trip; bash or do what you fancied to the man with the ball. I would lead one team and a big bloke, with whom I was having difficulty, would lead the other. This suggestion was met with enthusiasm. Here was their chance to take me apart.
The game was fast and furious and to begin with somewhat vicious. We played on asphalt with brick walls surrounded the arena. Barging a swiftly running bloke without a singlet into a brick wall can produce a lovely gravel rash. While a face ground into the asphalt can keep a fellow's girl-friend busy all evening doing repair work on his features. At the end of fifteen minutes we were all blown and weary. A bit short of hair and skin here and there, but each lad had a healthy respect for the other members of the group. From then on, no more bother. I came out of it relatively unscathed. Past experience of playing rugby against Yorkshire coal miners had really paid off.
Each week we got through the exercises in double quick time so that we would have our fifteen minutes of mayhem. At some of the fellows request, the game was modified slightly, so that there was less skin left in the playground, but it was still good and tough.
We were inspected one afternoon by some bigwig who wanted to see what the cadets training entailed. He was impressed by the first aid, gas drill etc., but didn't want to be bothered seeing the physical training. However, the Commandant persuaded him to stay. The lads went through their routine magnificently, apart from the commands to "Commence" and "Stop", I didn't have to utter a word. They knew the routine and just followed my lead. Then we played our game. The bigwig was stunned. Never had he seen anything like it. Sure, the repairwork was heavy that night, but it was worth it. The bigwig reckoned we were the best and toughest physical group of cadets in Liverpool. I like to think he was right.
Once they were trained, the cadets were allocated to ambulance stations; rescue squads; fire stations etc. I went to a fire station where I served as a motorcycle dispatch rider. If there were no messages to deliver or convoys of fire fighting equipment to escort, then one pitched in and helped to fight fires. Never a dull moment.
It was either the sixth or seventh night of the May blitz. I cannot be sure, but I think it was the sixth. I wasn't on duty at the fire station. We were having a bad night in our street. Very early in the raid a stick of small H/E (High Explosive) bombs landed in an adjoining street and damaged a house opposite ours. I went in to the house through the dust and rubble and brought out a rather hysterical mother and a very calm and collected daughter aged about 8, who in no uncertain terms, told her mother that if she didn't pull herself together that instant, she would tell me to give her a four-penny one across the chops! That had the desired effect and although the lady was shaking like a jelly and was terrified of going outside, this little girl and I got her out. We then walked her 200 yards to a church hall where I handed her over to the care of the ladies in there who no doubt calmed her down with a cuppa.
Back to have a look at my own house. Some more windows gone. A slate or two missing, but no major damage. This was the third night in a row that our house copped some damage. Previous raids had broken windows and doors and my bedroom had had the whole wooden window frame and window blown across the room severing the light fittings. Blast had peeled some wallpaper off the walls, and soot which gets blown down the chimneys makes an awful mess. Gauze glued to the window glass certainly stopped the fragments flying and made cleaning up easier.
Back to the raid. Mum decided that this was likely to be a long and busy night, so she put a pot of vegetable stew on the gas stove and had a kettle simmering. She always had a big pot of vegi stew at the ready, for a bowl of that in the wee small hours when you were tired was a good pick-me-up. Mum couldn't stand the sight of blood, so she felt that she could do her bit by nourishing those who attended the injured or fought the fires etc.
Another stick of the H/E bombs dropped 150 yards up the street. Dad and I who were outside heard them coming and had gone to ground before they landed. I saw the flashes as two of them exploded and I was up and running towards the damage before the debris had finished falling. Houses damaged and a big hole in the street. Water and gas mains broken, but luckily the gas main did not ignite. One warden went to ring for the experts to repair the damaged pipes. Dad took up traffic duty to prevent any vehicles falling into the crater, until barricades could be rigged. I went looking for casualties. The smell of gas was everywhere, I wasn't game to even switch on my hooded torch. I soon found an elderly lady wedged under some furniture in her damaged house. I managed to free her without calling for assistance and got her out through what had once been a window. Handed her over to a lady warden who took her and some others in tow and led them to the church hall. Meanwhile the gas crew had arrived and were plugging the main. Quick and simple procedure. Shove a bladder inside the broken pipe and pump it up like a football. Stops the leak pronto. Bit of a lull, so home to Mum for a bowl of stew and a mug of cocoa.
My usual rig, since your clothes got so dirty, was a rugger jersey, shorts and stockings, a pair of old grey flannel bags, gum boots, leather gloves and a tin hat. Since it was a chilly night I added a cricket sweater and an old sports coat.
The raid began again in earnest. Mum moved out into a street surface shelter almost outside our house. These shelters were made of brick and had concrete roofs. They were all over the city. Some were made quite cosy by the local populace and bore names such as "Duck Inn" "Dive Inn" "Bob Inn" etc. Dad and I stood outside and watched. There was the glow from fires; flares on parachutes; bursting AA shells; and searchlights. The barrage balloons looked like goldfish as they reflected the glow from the fires; and now and then you could see a plane. There was tracer - both coming and going - and the silver streaks of falling bombs. Situation normal.
Suddenly we heard them coming, another stick of bombs. A howling rushing noise as though an express steam train was right upon you. No real build up of noise, like you usually heard. This lot were here - now! Dad, who was only six feet from the shelter entrance went for it and all but made it before the blast blew him the rest of the way. In a split second I had decided that there wasn't going to be time for both of us to make the shelter, so I dived for the gutter between the pavement and the air-raid shelter. Lying near my face was a somewhat insanitary looking piece of paper and I was just about to move it when the bomb exploded behind me. I was enveloped in heat, and the orange coloured flash of the explosion seemed to last for ages. As I sailed through the air I could clearly see details in the brickwork of our front garden wall, all from the long lasting flash. I landed, started to get up and was promptly flattened under a hail of paving stones, bricks, slates and chimney pots.
Mum and Dad, somewhat stunned from the concussion of the explosion crawled out of the shelter as soon as the debris stopped falling and started to look for me. The air was thick with dust and fumes which choked them. The street was knee deep in rubble. Dad crawled towards the spot he had last seen me. I was not there nor did I answer any calls. Mum, who had gone in a different direction, found a gum boot sticking out of a pile of bricks and paving slabs. Having ascertained that there was at least a leg attached to the boot she called Dad over. Between them they managed to partly unearth me before help arrived. Apparently I groaned and moved a limb, so they knew there was hope.
Dad and some wardens got me free and carried me 100 yards to the local doctor's where by the light of a candle they tried to stop the flow of blood from my head. The windows of the surgery were blown in on top of us while they worked. Dad fainted from shock and exhaustion. I recall nothing of that for I was still out cold. I only became briefly aware of what was going on when I was carried out on a stretcher and placed in a canvas covered ambulance. Next thing I knew was that I was being wheeled face down on a trolley into an operating theatre. The trolley wheels made tracks in the pools of blood on the floor.
Now, I go crazy when given some anaesthetics so I mumbled "No gas", "No gas", "No gas". Someone acknowledged the message and they started doing the repairwork on the back of my head. I could hear and feel the scraping and rasping going on. Sounded and felt as though they were digging chunks of metal out of my skull. Actually they were cleaning up a fair sized scalp wound and stitching it up. I passed out again.
Somewhere along the line I recall that a couple of nurses were having trouble getting my rugby shorts off me. They had an in-built belt and buckle. The latter was covered over with a flap which buttoned down and I was lying on top of this. This somewhat elaborate arrangement was designed to protect other players from being injured by the buckle. Elastic was no good - never strong enough to keep your shorts up when the opposition was hanging on and trying to drag you down. I don't know how the nurses got the shorts off, perhaps they cut them away with what other remnants of clothes were still hanging on me.
Next afternoon I regained consciousness in a ward. I was so thirsty. All I wanted was a drink of water. That's all I would think of, water, water, I must have water. A nurse put some in a glass on a stand on the opposite side of the bed to that which I was facing. I managed to roll over, but the effort was too much and I faded out. Later I came to, grasped the glass of water with difficulty and drank it - after a fashion. My jaw didn't work properly, my tongue was badly cut in several places, water dribbled out through a hole in my chin and something was very wrong with my teeth. Everything was far too raw and tender to do much assessing and the taste of the blood was awful.
I dozed. On awakening, I found that someone had reloaded the water glass and I was still facing the right way. I drank the water. After that I tried to take stock of the situation. I was in a large ward, beds crammed together about one foot apart. All had occupants and there were lots of patients lying on the floor with their bodies parallel to the walls. A doctor with an orderly was doing a quick round. A cursory glance at each casualty and you got a coloured tag tied on to you. Some got a blanket pulled over their heads and were removed to make way for more casualties. There was no changing bed linen. Soon, I and some others were placed on stretchers, put into ambulances and taken to another hospital. Here I was cleaned up a bit, given a drink and some soup - I couldn't manage whatever else was offered and I was placed in a small ward with five other fellows. Nobody talked. I felt too battered and faint to give a hoot and I guess the others were just as weary.
Next morning - breakfast - I sat up with difficulty, the room wouldn't hold still and kept wanting to spin or turn over. I managed to get control of it and got through the porridge and tea. Toast was beyond my capabilities. I took stock of my damage. My head was all bound up and I knew I had a fair sort of head wound with a headache to match it. A jaw that wouldn't work, that tattered tongue and a lot of teeth seemed to be loose, missing or broken off at the gum line. That hole in the chin was a nuisance, it kept on letting my mouth leak. There were sundry cuts to my face. All limbs worked, albeit reluctantly and my back felt as though a herd of elephants had charged over it. My hands, arms and other portions of my anatomy were grey and hairless. The blast of the explosion had polished me smooth and forced dust under the skin. It took weeks for the greyness to wear off.
Alongside my bed was a cardboard box of my personal effects. A few tattered remnants of my clothes caked with blood and dust. I examined them. Found my wallet with my identity card and a packet of fags - I remembered I had five cigarettes left, they were precious in war time and you kept track of what you had. I opened the pack to see if they were still there. Yes, there they were, five tubes of paper blown clean like a collector's eggs. Not a shred of tobacco in any of them, nor in the packet or even in the pocket of my sports coat. Another pocket had what I first thought was a chunk of liver in it, until I realised it was congealed blood. Apart from the wallet there was nothing worth salvaging.
I rested, but not for long. The fellow next to me was moaning and calling out for water. I rang for a nurse. No response. After an interval I rang again. Still no response. The other inmates in the ward got restless, they tried ringing to get a nurse. No joy. We decided that they must be too short staffed to help. I was the only one who had any chance of walking, so could I get him a drink? None of us had any water. So I sat on the edge of my bed and put my feet to ground and stood up. Ugh, giddiness and nausea. I managed to control it and using beds for support made my way very slowly to the doorway and out into the corridor. Which way to go? A sign said "Gents" down the corridor, so I set course for that.
At that instant, a sentry stationed at the far end of the corridor yelled "Guard turn out!" A clatter of boots, rifles and bayonets and a squad of soldiers lined one side of the alleyway. This happened so quickly, that I couldn't take it all in, anyway I had problems of my own trying to stay on my feet.
Leaning against the wall I slowly staggered down to the bathroom and pushed the door partly open. It was spring loaded and promptly reacted by shoving me back. It took three attempts before I managed to wedge my foot in the gap and squeezed my way in. Crawled over to a wash basin, hauled myself up and turned on a tap. I drank and drank and drank and drank and drank. Then I sat on the floor till I got a bit of strength back, hauled myself up and looked for a glass. Found one. Had a more civilised drink and caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Not a pretty sight. Dull red brown dirty bandages encasing a chalk white face spattered with dried blood and bits of sticking plaster. Gee I was white! Even the pink tinge under the finger nails was gone. I decided not to look any more. I had to get back and I was so weak. I had another drink. Loaded up the glass and crawled back across the floor. I stood up, opened the door - easier from the inside and got back into the corridor.
The guards were still there standing at the ready with fixed bayonets. I leant against the wall and got back to the ward. I gave the suffering soul his drink, got chided by the other patients for "Taking my time" and got back into bed exhausted.
Morning tea time. Not a word from the tea lady. Nurse came in. Someone asked if he could have a newspaper. No response. I tried the same question and got a testy reply "Surely as prisoners of war you don't expect to be allowed newspapers?" Sensation!! Blokes who hadn't moved up to now sat bolt upright in bed and asked what on earth she meant by that remark? "Ar'n't you Germans?" "No way!!!". Shock and puzzlement for all of us. The nurse beat a hasty retreat and came back with a sister. "Are you sure you are not Germans?" Emphatic denials and those of us with I.D.s produced them. Exit sister and nurse. Buzz of agitated discussion in the ward. A little later, enter a retinue of flunkeys and a small bird like woman in a black uniform - Matron. She barked for the guards, got them to collect the I.D.s, snapped questions at her flunkeys who shuffled papers and the I.D.s, ordered the guards to return the I.D.s and swept out of the ward with her retinue and guards. Five minutes later Sister came back and explained what had happened.
That particular ward was usually reserved for P.O.W.s, but because there were so many casualties from the blitz, the P.O.W.s had been taken elsewhere to make more beds available. To complicate matters, some nursing staff from a damaged hospital had been brought in and allocated to this wing of the hospital. They were not told, nor was the Army informed, that the P.O.W.s had been removed. The records and scoreboard still showed that P.O.W.s were in our ward. "Tough luck - sorry about that - we will try and make it up for you", and they did. An extra dessert at lunch time and the Army found us some fags and newspapers before they were sent elsewhere.
Come the afternoon and I had my first encounter with a real live bureaucratic social worker. She was slim, hawklike, wore horn-rimmed spectacles, mouth in a thin tight line, hair drawn into a severe bun, mentally as thick as a brick and no sense of humour. She parked herself primly alongside my bed and sat bolt upright with both feet planted firmly on the ground. Armed with a sheaf of papers, she began the inquisition in a prissy voice. "Name?" "Spell it", "Christian names?" "Spell them", "Address?" I told her I didn't know if our house was still standing. "What was its address?" Fat lot she cared. "Next of kin?" "Parents names?" "Where were they?" I explained that I didn't know whether they were even alive. She gave me a look that I suspect she reserved for morons. The questions went on, "Sex?" - "Male", "Age?", "17", "Employed?" " No", Occupation?" - "Radio student", "Married?" (Stupid woman, here am I, fresh out of school, studying for my radio ticket, unemployed, only 17 years of age which was below the usual legal age to get married and she asks if I was married. I am tired, all this talk is difficult because of my jaw and it hurt). So, I reply "Of course!" "Children?" - "FIVE" and on and on the questions went until I pretended to pass out and she left. Exhausted I went to sleep.
Next thing I know is that I am being put on a stretcher and taken to an ambulance. Where are we going? A whole convoy of ambulances is to take a lot of us out of the Liverpool area to make room for more casualties. It was a long slow journey of some hours duration. All the patients in my ambulance had head injuries. Just as well we moved fairly slowly, every bump in the road made itself felt in my head. The driver cheered us all up no end, by telling us that our destination was a lunatic asylum. Ye gods! My brain seemed to be working OK, but how bad was that head injury? Were the marbles falling out and was I really a candidate for a nut house? The driver didn't know the answers. All he knew was that was where we were going and that we were all "head" cases.
Dusk was settling when we arrived. A huge asylum in enormous grounds. Had its own cricket oval; lake; gasworks; bakery and laundry block. As we passed the various buildings you could glimpse the inmates waving out of the barred windows. Some were screaming and yelling obscenities. Zombies roamed the grounds. Rather depressing. I was carried into a huge barn of a ward. 60 beds arranged in four lines of 15, with two working alleyways. Two padded cells at the end of the ward looked ominous.
A bright young nurse took me under her care. Her opening remarks were to the effect that I must be exhausted, and that she would first get me a meal and a drink and then she would clean me up and redress all wounds. I explained to this angel that I could only manage to eat slops. Off she went, and in next to no time was back with soup, mince, mashed spuds, mushy peas and gravy. Steamed apple, custard and jelly followed. I got that lot down while she assured me that I was only in a looney bin because Liverpool's hospitals were over-flowing and that half this huge asylum had been made available for casualties by doubling up the mental patients in other wards. Without any case history, she reckoned my skull wasn't fractured nor would there be any brain damage. She gave good medical reasons for her diagnosis. She also said that I was so white because I had lost a great deal of blood. That would also account for the acute thirst, weakness and giddiness.
The meal over, she gave me a sponge bath, rubbed some embrocation into my back to ease the bruising, redressed my head, removed small splinters of steel from my face, discovered that several lots of sticking plaster only covered dried blood. It took about two hours to fix me up. She then found me another meal and managed to scrounge some iron tablets to help build up my blood supply.
Later that night she was back again. "I have been checking your records, are you really married with five kids?" I explained, and we had a good laugh over that. I never saw her again. She got switched to somewhere else. Pity, she was a jewel.
In the bathroom next morning a patient wobbling on crutches gave my jaw an accidental bump. It hurt, but wonder of wonders I was now able to use it. It must have been partly dislocated and no one had thought to check it out.
Now this hospital was also used for military personnel so my ward contained a mixture of civilians of all ages from kids to doddering old codgers and a sprinkling of army types. To boost morale and to encourage your early discharge, our ward was matched against an identical ward elsewhere in the hospital. Each week we battled against each other to score the most points. The actual values applied for scoring eludes me now, but you scored points for your ward if you could sit up in bed; get out of bed; walk; go to the loo unaided; help make beds; keep everyone supplied with water; urinals; and bedpans; polish the wooden floors; hand out the cutlery; dispense the meals; clean up the dishes and do the washing up; roll bandages; help with dressing wounds; light cigarettes and pipes for those who were unable and best of all, being discharged. We had a sister and usually, but not always, a nurse to look after the 60 of us. So anything we could do to ease their burden meant they had more time to attend to those who were in bad shape. Any whingeing was promptly squashed by those nearest the whinger, no gloomy faces allowed in there.
At meal times blokes in wheelchairs used to load up trays of cutlery and go down the working alleyways handing out what you needed. Those who could stand would be in the servery dishing out the food. Other men in wheelchairs would take several plates of food at a time, on trays, and wheel them to the patients.
Floor polishing was fun. Some polish would be sprinkled on the floor. Then a man in a wheel chair would take under each arm a handle of one of those heavy old fashioned floor polishers (called "bumpers"?). The heads of the polishers would be on the floor in front of the wheelchair. Unless you were well recovered it took two of us (horses) to push the wheelchair (chariot) with patient (charioteer) and the two polishers round the ward. It was effective and worked well. Someone had a watch so we were able to have races (timed laps) up one alleyway, across the ward and down the other alleyway and back across the ward. Turning at the end of the alleyway was fraught with difficulty. The momentum of the heavy polishers tried to keep them going straight on, so, unless your charioteer had a very firm grip and was able to force them to change course, your team had problems and made a very slow lap. Lots were drawn in the afternoon to decide who was going to be in each team next morning. This added to the uncertainty of how well you would race next day. Kept the bookies and punters busy for hours. I can't remember what they used for money - none of us had any!
Each morning MATRON; her minion; the house doctor; the ward's sister and nurse (in that pecking order) did her rounds of inspection. All beds had to be exactly in line. All beds made to her specifications. Not a wrinkle to be seen. The level of water in all jugs to be at the same height. Toothbrushes to point the same way. The floor to shine and not a speck of dust to be seen. No one to speak unless asked a direct question. All personnel to stand, sit or lie at attention throughout the inspection. Breathe if you must, but don't let MATRON see or hear you. The nursing staff were terrified of HER and were scared stiff SHE might find some fault and punish the lot of us. They were all so scared I wasn't game to ask what form the punishment might take.
I was sitting up in bed when my turn came to be inspected. SHE glanced at my chart, handed it to the doctor, then looked me straight in the eyes. HER eyes!! Dark and cold like a snake's gave me a quick piercing glance that bored straight through to the brain. Then moved on to the next man. Although she inspected us daily and examined my chart, SHE never spoke to me nor did our eyes meet again. What a relief! Where do they find people (?) like that? Would modern day staff accept such a martinet?
Over a week now since the air-raid and I have no news of my parents. I have no money so I can't ring up even if I could find a phone. There are none in the ward. There must be one somewhere, but even the nurses don't know where one might be! How am I going to get home, assuming I still have a home and parents. I gather we are at least 40 miles north of Liverpool, so walking is a bit much for me in my weakened state and what can I do for clothes and shoes? Quite a problem. Suddenly it was all solved. I looked up when some people came into the ward. My gorgeous red headed girl friend - Thelma Briggs and her mother!
When I had failed to turn up for a date Thelma rang our house - no response. So she conned her mother to drive some seven miles to our place. They found the house was decidedly uninhabitable, quite bent and you could put a bus through a hole in the roof. A huge crater 30´ deep and 60´ across spanned the street in front of the house. Someone told them that I had been taken to hospital, that Mum and Dad were alive, but they didn't know where they had gone.
Thelma and her mother went to the nearest hospital. No record of me, but they were told that some patients had been transferred to three other hospitals. Perhaps I had gone to one of them. Petrol was short so they went home and did some telephoning. Records were chaotic and inquirers trying to locate relatives were legion. They drew blanks all round. Later this persistent lass tried again and managed to find out that I had been in one of the hospitals, but had been transferred. Where to? The records did not say, but it could have been one of any of four or five hospitals in the north of England.
It took a lot of telephone detective work, exasperation and patience until she located a hospital where they "thought" I might be a patient, but they couldn't be sure because they had some patients whom they couldn't identify. Thelma and her Mum did the rounds of their friends scrounging petrol coupons until they had enough to buy sufficient petrol for the journey north. Petrol coupons were in very short supply so they must have been very persuasive to get anyone to part with such treasure. Come the weekend they drove north and searched some hospitals. They saw some fellows who didn't know who they were, but they didn't find me until they got to the Lunatic Asylum and tried some wards there. They were just about to give up and go home when they spotted me. Rapture all round. They still had no news of my parents other than that they were alive. I gave them a list of places they might try. Armed with this information, they set off for home promising to be back in a few days with some clothes, shoes and a razor, but no toothbrush. I didn't want anything like that on my shattered teeth. They had assurance that I would be fit enough to be discharged. No point coming all that way using precious petrol if they couldn't collect me. And that's what they did. They arrived at the appointed hour, took me to their house and looked after me for some weeks while I gradually built up my strength.
What had been happening to my parents while all this was going on? After seeing me off in the ambulance they went back to what was left of their house. They stayed the night there and next day Dad arranged for storage of the furniture etc., and sent the carpets to the cleaners. The government condemned the building, subsequently paid Dad 60 pounds compensation, commandeered the place, repaired it and put three families in it! The 60 pounds covered the cost of the storage of the furniture and the carpet cleaning. Dad was a whole house out of pocket. All insurance of course, was null and void in relation to war damage.
Dad continued to go to work - he was a sub-manager in the Midland Bank - but somehow managed to locate a nice house to rent. Mum did her share of house hunting too, until she got shoved under a bus by a throng of people all trying to board a scarce bus at the same time. She sustained a twisted ankle and was put out of action. They had never owned a car, so getting about was either by "shank's pony" or the limited public transport.
My parents had no news of me nor any means of finding my whereabouts as their telephoned inquiries met a blank wall. There were just no real records. Hospitals had no time to keep up with the paper work, and in some cases such records as had been kept were destroyed in raids. Mum was confident I would turn up OK - in due course. Wasn't I thick in the head, and how many bones had I broken playing rugby, but always recovered quickly? "Bad pennies always turn up - so just wait and see". Dad had had plenty to worry about. His house gone; the furniture to rescue; work to go on; new accommodation to be found; his elder son mislaid and his wife out of action. He was relieved to learn from Mrs Briggs that I had been found and that she would look after me until Dad had his problems under control.
That just about wraps it up except for some details that emerged later. The bomb crater had been examined by explosive experts who estimated that the bomb had been not less than a ½ tonner and was unusual in as much that it was accompanied by two 45 gallon drums of an inflammable liquid that fortunately did not ignite, otherwise I might have been fried. The experts estimated I would have been 25-30 from the point of impact, that the bomb went deep before exploding, and that I "rode" the uprising ejecta for 30´ before landing and getting flattened by falling debris.
Later, someone gave me back my tin hat. The centre bolt holding the inner harness and padding had been sheared off, there was a dent in the rear crown into which you could put your fist. The buckle on the chin strap was distorted and the whole thing had a patina of dried blood. There is no doubt that I own my life to that battle bowler. Luckily I had been taught to place my chin strap in front of my chin and not under it. Why? Because blast from an explosion can get under the brim of a helmet and if the helmet is restrained by the chin strap the quick jerk can snap your neck. Modern helmets which wrap round the head don't have a brim and are designed to avoid this problem. The buckle of the chin strap had made the hole in my chin.
Two of Liverpool's leading dentists, over a period of some months, removed the stumps of sheared off teeth, repaired those that were salvageable and fitted me with plates. I don't usually relish the idea of visiting dentists, but when you have the nerves exposed on a dozen or so broken teeth, a visit to the dentist can be almost a pleasure. Six months after being blown up I was at sea as a radio officer in the Merchant Navy.
Oh, one last thing - Thelma wanted to know when I had got married and fathered five kids!
The third delay came when, as I mentioned earlier, I burnt my hands when I tripped up in the kitchen,and to save myself from falling into the stove fire placed my hands on the hot plates on top of the stove. Grandmother had nothing for treating burns, so I hurried to the local chemist's shop where the chemist plastered some healing gel on my hands and bandaged them. This was some new experimental brew and the chemist was eager to try it. "Do not take the bandages off - but come back in a week and we will see how things are progressing"
In seven days time I fronted up, the chemist cut the bandages away and with them came all the burnt and blackened flesh. The new skin and flesh underneath was semi-transparent, quite fascinating - it was just possible to see some of the "works" in the fingers and palms.
The chemist was ecstatic. Everything was healing far better than he had expected. While he squeezed out dollops of gel from a tube and rebound the hands, he told me that when he had first seen the burns, he thought I might lose two fingers on my right hand. He was bubbling with enthusiasm for this wonder healer and got me to sign a report that detailed what had eventuated.
To this day I do not know what that gel was. But no doubt it is now in common usage. Whatever it was, it surely worked well - not a vestige of a scar to be seen.
Now, back to where I was after my hands had been bandaged for the first time. The shock and the pain of the burns suddenly made my legs feel rubbery, but I was able to reach a chair before they folded up. The chemist countered this unwanted development by presenting me with a small glass of sal-volatile. Revolting concoction, but it worked and cured the dizzy spell.
Grandmother's maid, Jessie, having done a quick change out of her uniform and into civvies arrived at the chemist's with some money. After she had settled the bill and I had got my legs under control, she escorted me back to Grandmother's house.
There was no way I could ride my bicycle home, so I took a tram and walked the remainder of the distance. Once home, and since no one was in the house, I thought it might not be a bad idea to switch the wireless on with my teeth and tune into a short wave station transmitting morse. That way I could at least practice reading morse even if I was not getting it down on paper. So there I was, sitting on the floor, concentrating on listening to the morse coming out of the loudspeaker and I was doing quite nicely, when it happened. I thought I heard what I could have sworn was a woman's sigh right behind me in a corner of the room. I spun round. No one. "Mum?" No answer. I got up and checked the room out, checked the house out. No one about. How odd! I settled down again to listen to the morse.
Then it happened again. Only this time I had a premonition that it was coming and my flesh crept a little. I turned to face the corner and the sigh came again. Definitely a woman's sigh, but nothing to be seen. Again I checked the house, but not a trace of anyone.
My mother came in shortly afterwards and after I had explained why I was home early I mentioned that I had had a somewhat weird experience. "Don't tell me anything until I have written something down" said my mother. She quickly made some notes. "Now" she said "What did you experience?" I told her about the two sighs. Mother then handed me her notes. She too had on previous occasions heard this sighing. Dad was sceptical, but conceded that as it was not a windy day, nor was there any plumbing in that part of the house, there did not seem to be an obvious explanation as to how the sounds could have been made.
Dad made inquiries to ascertain whether there had been any experience of this phenomenon by the previous owners of the house. On this score he drew a blank. The house was fairly new, and had only had the one lot of occupants living there before we moved in. They could throw no light on the matter. No tragedies in their team. Nor was anybody else able to enlighten us, for there were no records of any unfortunate happenings in that locality even before the house was built. Some time later, Mum, who must have had another visitation, asked me if I had felt the "presence" to be friendly or otherwise? Although the experience was startling and a bit creepy, I answered "Friendly". There was certainly nothing sinister to be felt. We never solved the mystery.
Chapter Three.