STREETLY,
STAFFORDSHIRE MEMORIES
(1936
- 1961)
SATURDAY, 6th
FEBRUARY 1943 - THE VISITOR
-
by Chris Myers
|
Saturday, 6th February 1943........
Hello, my name is Christopher
and I am six-and-ten/twelfths
years of age. I live with my mum
and dad and big sister in a
house in the
Chester Road
in
Streetly. It's at the
top of the hill between the
Parson & Clerk and
Manor Road. I
was born here. I think I have
told you some of this before but
I'm not sure if you were paying
attention.
I'm not doing much today,
really, just mucking about. I'm
pretty good at that. And I'm
certainly not expecting anything
out of the ordinary to happen
this morning. I should be at
school -
Sandwell School in
Blackwood Road, Streetly - but
I've had measles and although
I'm better I'm not allowed to go
back yet. Not that I'm too
bothered about that! No, that's
absolute rubbish - it's Saturday morning,
of course it is! So I wouldn't
be at school anyway. That's all
a
bit of a swizz when you think
about it. Not having to go to
school because you are supposed
to be ill, and then two of the
days when you're off school are
at the weekend. Doesn't seem
fair to me.
I go back on Monday. That'll not
be a bad thing, I have to say.
Monday here is dreadful. A bloke
gets no peace. The garage is
full of steam from the gas
wash-boiler and the smell of bed
linen being laundered. The dolly
on the top of the boiler is
swung backwards and forwards as
fast as possible by my mother.
It's jolly hard work and she has
a funny expression on her face
while she does it. And then the
mangling. I have to keep my
fingers right out of the way
while this goes on. And finally
all the pegging out on the
clothes-line. Oh,
blimey!
But here I am, peering around
the half open door of our
garage, down the drive towards
the gate and the hawthorn hedge
which cuts us off from the
Chester Road
and the whole
outside world. (This is the
doorway I'm looking out from.
The picture was taken nearly
four years ago, in 1939. I was
doing something useful then,
helping Dad. Not like today when
I'm just mucking about).
The family car - it's a Ford
Prefect now - isn't on the drive
because Dad's at work, although
only until lunchtime on a
Saturday. He's got a petrol
ration because of his work and
his Home Guard duties. We're
lucky about that although you
can't use the car very much,
only for important things. My
sister isn't around either.
Probably in her bedroom dreaming
of film stars. She's started
calling herself Vivienne, after
Vivienne Leigh. Oh dear! You just can't
understand them, can you? Mum is
also in the house somewhere,
doing whatever she does there;
or else getting ready for her
W.V.S. shift. (That stands for
Women's Voluntary Service - they
serve in canteens for the troops
and do all sort of other good
work like that. It's
voluntary and that means she
doesn't get paid). If it was a
weekday she might even be
preparing for the weekly meeting
of local housewives. They get
together in an afternoon in each
other's houses to knit mittens
and scarves and balaclava
helmets for the troops. Knitting
and nattering, in other words.
Probably talking about their
sons or husbands who are far
away. I sometimes go with her,
if I'm not at school. Or haven't
got measles. Some of the houses
are in
Hardwick Road or
Thornhill Road or
Little Aston
Park and they have lovely
gardens which I can explore
until tea is ready. We often get
cake.
I am sort-of aware of what is
going on in the outside world. I
know that beyond our gate the
world is a dreadful place
although at the moment I can
only guess just how horrid it
is. I know that almost all of
Europe is in the hands of the
Germans and that life for the
people there can't be imagined.
These days I am always careful
not to be seen to be picking at
my food as otherwise Dad gets
very cross and I get the
usual lecture from him: "If
you were in Europe now you would
probably be picking food out of
dustbins...." I really hate it
when he does that. It's always
enough to make me clear my plate.
I never leave anything although
I sometimes try to - - but only
when it's cabbage. That's a habit I don't think
I'm ever going to lose.
There are things I know about
and others I don't. I know that
it is the aim of every single
German and Japanese to bump me
off and if it is the Japs I know
it will involve torture as well
(because everybody knows that
and often, when we go on our
bikes to the
Avion cinema in
Aldridge, the films prove it).
Such horrid things come to me in
bad dreams every now and again.
I know that the RAF is attacking
German cities and factories
every night because that is what
the BBC News (read by Alvar
Liddell - or "Alvanidell" as the
name sounds to me) keeps on
telling us. I know there is a
lot of fighting in Russia as
well - they are always talking
about the River Don on the
wireless. And in North Africa.
And I know that the life I am
leading is absolutely normal. I
can't remember much about what
it was like before; and I most
certainly can't imagine what
it'll be like when it's all
over, if it ever is. I don't
worry about much. There is
nothing extraordinary about what
is going on. It's just normal
life. If I had a bit more
imagination I would know that
the grown-ups aren't relaxed at
all.
What I don't know, and perhaps
it's a good thing, is what is
happening day-by-day.
This is what I don't
know about what's
happening at this very
moment.
I don't know how many RAF
bombers which have gone out over
Germany will never come back
home and what the families of
their crews are feeling.
All those Lancasters, Halifaxes,
Stirlings and Wellingtons which
are "missing". I don't really
think of all those children in
Germany, kids just like me, who
are being bombed every night -
perhaps I should, but I don't.
But I can still remember quite a
bit about what it feels like.
Perhaps Mum thinks about them
from time to time because she's
a very kind person. I just don't
know and she's never said
anything to me.
There are running battles
in the North Atlantic between convoys
bringing stuff from America and U-boats:
dozens of ships get sunk every
month. Since the beginning of the
year thousands and thousands of Jewish
people have been deported to a
place with a funny name. It's
called Auschwitz. Around now they are
starting to build something huge
at Birkenau which is next door.
They'll do this very, very
quickly because it is
slave-labour which is doing all
the work. I don't know anything
about that today. And I can't
know, either, that when my
mother, far into the future,
learns about that place, and
all the others, she will always
call the people who were sent
there "those poor wretches".
What I don't know either, but
perhaps the grown-ups are
starting to feel it, is that
things are just starting to get
a bit better. I haven't had to
spend a night in an air-raid
shelter for ages. And Bomber
Command is getting busier and
busier.
They are always talking on the
wireless about "last night's
raid on the Ruhr". Rommel has
been forced back after defeat at
El Alamein last October and is
becoming trapped between the
British 8th Army who are chasing
after him and the British and
American armies which landed
four months ago in Morocco and
Algeria. It looks as though the
Afrika Corps has had it. The German
6th Army has just been wiped out at Stalingrad and the
Soviet armies are getting
stronger and stronger. And in
the Far East, after all of last
year's disasters, the Japanese
are starting to be forced back.
To me, though, what I know of
this - and I only know bits of
it - is all just day-to-day
stuff. |
|
I am still standing at the
garage door, idly looking down the
drive. Everything is quiet. Just
an occasional lorry or motorbike
passes the gate. Nothing is
stirring in the front gardens of
the houses opposite. Then to my
amazement a man appears on
the other side of the gate and
starts to unlatch it. It is a
soldier. Who on earth is he?
Then I recognise him. It's my
20-year-old brother. He
comes
through the gate and walks
towards me with a broad grin.
I shout to my mother through the
back door to let her know. He
shouldn't be here. We only said
good-bye to him two or three
weeks ago.
This is a picture of him and me
then, only a couple of weeks
ago, standing at the top of our
garden. I look very proud of
him, which I am. He had
been home on what everyone
called Embarkation Leave. I had
been told that that was it, he
was going far, far away and I
shouldn't expect to see him
again for goodness how long.
And now here he is, back again!
Graham (otherwise known as Bill)
has now been a soldier for 8 or
9 months. He is in the Royal
Artillery. He had wanted to join
Bomber Command and become a
bomb-aimer but they wouldn't
have him. His eyesight wasn't
good enough. I bet Mum and Dad
are a bit relieved! For exactly
two years up to June last year
he worked and trained at the
side of our dad in the local
Home Guard platoon based at
Little Aston Hall stables. They
spent night after night there,
on guard duty. They said it was
still full of the smell of
horses. Then he was called up.
First of all he went to
Church
Stretton. On a lovely Sunday at
the beginning of July last year
we all paid him a visit there
and Dad took some pictures with
a bit of colour film carefully
kept from pre-war. Here he is on
that happy day, facing an
unknown future with a cheery
grin and a Woodbine.
After coming up the drive and
greeting me in the garage there
are embraces with Mum who has
arrived all excited at the
kitchen door when she heard me
shouting for her. He explains
why he has arrived unexpectedly.
He has been able to convince his
Commanding Officer that measles
can be quite a serious illness -
he himself had a bad time of it
when he was young. So what about
a bit of Compassionate Leave?
The C.O. falls for it and now my
brother looks at me, all hail
and hearty, and perhaps, just
perhaps, feels a tiny twinge of
conscience. But there we are,
and, well, a couple of days at
home aren't to be sneezed at.
Thirty-six hours later it will
be good-byes again, this time
for real; and off he will go,
back down the drive, back to
Woolwich and back to an unknown
future. In a few days after he
leaves us he will be on a
troopship casting off from
Avonmouth and sailing for an
unknown destination.
This
family and local history page is
hosted by
www.staffshomeguard.co.uk
(The Home Guard of Great Britain, 1940-1944)
Please see INDEX page for acknowledgements.
All text and images are,
unless otherwise stated, © The Myers Family 2022
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Home Guard of
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INDEX
Streetly and Family Memories 1936-61
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L8J May 2022
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