Only the Makers Name

CHAPTER 1.

In the beginning.

I lay on my back unable to move any part of my body with the exception of my right arm. Although heavily sedated I could still feel the waves of pain that surged up my legs and through my body with monotonous regularity. The drugs had the effect of detaching the pain in some way, it was still there, but somehow didn’t seem to matter. I had been in hospital for three months, and virtually unable to move, I had memorised the number of bricks, windowpanes, and every countable detail of the small ward I was in.

The first six weeks, or thereabouts, had been spent in the intensive care unit of the Radcliffe Infirmary Oxford. Memories of that period were blurred and confused: Kind faces, sympathetic voices, bottles of red and clear liquids hanging from odd shaped structures over my head, severe pain, and the relief that came shortly after periodic injections somewhere in my back. Day and night seemed jumbled into one, and I had little idea of what was happening.

But now, in the small ward adjoining the main section of ‘C’ ward in the Radcliffe Hospital, I was able to think more clearly. Of one thing I was certain, I had been in a serious aeroplane accident, and was lucky to be alive.

Several surgeons had taken a look at me since my arrival, and to date I had undergone two major operations on my legs. I wasn’t quite sure of the full extent of my injuries at that time, but I did remember with crystal clarity that I had been mentally prepared for the possibility of having one, or maybe both of my legs amputated. The ward sister assured me that the surgeons would do everything possible to avoid amputation, and I would now be in the hands of Mr J.D. Morgan who was one of the finest consultant orthopaedic surgeons in the country, a man whom, over the next two long and painful years, I grew to respect and trust implicitly.

It wasn’t long before my confused mind cleared sufficiently for me to comprehend the unthinkable: I would probably never fly again. From then on that single thought was foremost in my mind. In reality, I should have been more concerned with the possibility that I may never be able to walk again, which was probably much nearer the mark!

Drugs play peculiar tricks on a person’s mind: terrific highs, devastating lows, depressions and hallucinations, but today I felt a kind of calmness, and I was able to think a lot more clearly than at any time since the accident.

Prior to the crash I had been the Chief Flying Instructor of ‘E’ flight at Oxford Air Training School where we trained pilots for many of the worlds airlines.

Having been born in a very poor area of King’s Lynn during the slump of the 1930s, it had been a long arduous struggle over many years for me to realise my childhood dream of becoming a pilot. Now it seemed that all had been taken away from me in a matter of seconds.

How had all this begun? My thoughts wandered back in time to my earliest childhood memories…

I was born on the 30th January 1931 in a small terraced house on the outskirts of King’s Lynn in the county of Norfolk. My earliest memories were of the very narrow cobbled street where I lived, and the smell of freshly baked bread from the small bakery on the corner. I clearly remember the old gas lamps that lit our tiny street in Winter when the frost sparkled on the windowsills and heavy snow deadened the sound of horse drawn vehicles busy about their business as Christmas time approached. Those happy times were indeed my earliest cherished memories.

Number five Wellington Street was a small terraced house with two very small rooms on the ground floor known in those days as the front room where no-one was allowed to set foot except on Sundays and Christmas Day, and the living room.

A small outhouse had been attached to the rear of our house that served as the kitchen and doubled as a bathhouse when required. Upstairs there were two tiny bedrooms, each with a real fireplace. The joy of a coal fire in the bedroom was a luxury that made being ill much more endurable.

The street itself was very narrow, ending in a cul-de-sac. In fact Wellington Street was so narrow that tradesmen delivering coal, bread, and milk etc., had to back their horse- drawn carts out of the road as there was insufficient room for them to turn.

My interest in aeroplanes first began when my mother brought me a cut-out aeroplane book back from the local grocers shop where they were given away to customers who purchased a certain brand of biscuits. One seldom saw or even heard a real aeroplane in those days, nevertheless I was fascinated with the idea of flying. Then one day in the Summer of 1934 things changed forever.

I sat with my father and mother in the railway carriage of the early morning train bound for the seaside town of Hunstanton, some twenty miles southeast of Lynn. We always spent our annual day out by the sea, it was our one and only highlight each Summer, and it was there that my interest in aeroplanes was first kindled.

On arrival at Hunstanton station we left the train angrily hissing spurts of steam into the air, and made our way to the beach, mother clutching a case of banana sandwiches, and me armed with a bucket and spade. It was a beautiful calm summer’s morning with clear blue skies, perfect for a day by the sea. As we reached the concrete steps that led down to the sandy beach, we were startled by an ear-splitting roar that caused us to look up and see a brightly coloured aeroplane flash low over our heads as it climbed out over the sea. It looked fantastic with its light green fuselage and silver wings silhouetted against the pale blue of the sky. I stood there gazing in amazement when a sudden jerk brought me back to my senses as my mother took my arm and said…

‘Come on my boy your fathers leaving us behind.’

Before long I was busy building a sandcastle. Dad lent a hand by digging a channel from the castle moat towards the incoming tide. At Hunstanton the sea goes out a very long way, so far in fact that when it’s fully out you can barely see it.

We ate our sandwiches and drank lemonade from the tin mugs mother had carefully packed away in her little case. It’s funny, but one of the things I remember is that we always had banana sandwiches when we went to the sea-side, at any other time we never set eyes on a banana.

As the day progressed, dad left us and strolled over to read a poster that was propped up in the sand near to the sea wall. He returned moments later looking quite excited about something.

‘They are giving joy flights in that little green aeroplane we saw earlier, apparently they’re taking off from a field near to the beach, would you like to go up Mag?’ he said.

He always called my mother Mag. Maggie was her real name, Maggie McKenzie, before she married Dad.

‘Oh my god, never,’ I heard my mother saying, ‘you’ll never get me up in one of those things Len!’

‘I’ll go Dad.’ I said almost unable to contain my excitement.

‘No you’re too young son.’

‘I’m three’ I argued.

‘No definitely not, they’d never let you go, besides it’s an open cockpit aeroplane and you’d fall out’ he said, no doubt hoping that would be the end of it.

It didn’t put me off at all, but one thing I knew for certain was that dad was not the sort of chap to argue with. So defeated, my eyes filled with tears, I slumped down onto the sand to enter the unplumbed depths of sheer misery.

Dad stared at me for a moment then, seeing I was heartbroken, he said…

‘Let’s take a walk over to the aeroplane old son and see what they say, but don’t go building your hopes up.’

Dad’s words brought me instantly to my feet, and I found myself in one of those odd circumstances when happiness overtakes distress, and I was laughing with my eyes still bubbling over with tears.

We started off down the beach in the direction of the arrow on the notice board, the immediately forgotten sand castle left to its ultimate fate against the incoming tide.

After walking for a short time the landing strip came into view. My feelings were a mixture of exhilaration and anxiety, worried in case I wouldn’t be allowed to go up after all. The bi-plane zoomed over our heads again as we arrived at a small wooden office mounted on large cart wheels where Joy Flight Tickets were on sale for five shillings each. A small section of the field had been fenced off to prevent the public from straying onto the take-off and landing area.

‘My son is three and a half years old, do you think he could be taken up for a Joy Flight?’ father was addressing a tall smiling lady in the ticket hut.

‘Well he’s definitely too small to go up on his own sir, but perhaps the pilot will let him sit on your lap’ the lady answered.

The whole thing was far too much for me…another agonising wait. Not knowing where to put myself, I ran round in circles until I became dizzy and sat down with a plonk! My mother said something about not acting silly, and when I pulled a face at her, she snatched my cap off and swiped me with it.

Two or three hundred yards away the aeroplane had landed and was snarling it’s way towards us. It turned around just short of the safety fence and came to a standstill. When the propeller stopped turning my father told me to stay where I was for a moment whilst he went to speak to the pilot. Those few moments seemed like a lifetime as I waited for the verdict. Mother looked very worried indeed, and no doubt we were each hoping for opposite results. The pilot turned out to be a very pretty young lady. Her name was Miss Pauline Gower. Miss Gower later became very famous as the commandant of the ladies section of the Air Transport Auxiliary that flew service aeroplanes on positioning flights throughout World War Two.

My father returned beaming from ear to ear with his hands outstretched towards me.

‘It’s O.K old son, you can sit on my lap, and I only have to pay for one ticket.’

I jumped up and down with excitement. My mother however couldn’t have looked more upset and began to fuss round me tucking my shirt into my trousers, pulling up my socks and issuing endless instructions on what not to do.

‘Come on Ray’ my father was waving the ticket and walking towards the aeroplane.

‘Now be careful and don’t do anything silly’ were my mother’s final words.

She kissed me and gave me a hug that almost suffocated me. I’m sure that she was convinced she would never see either of us again.

The pilot sat in the rear cockpit of the aeroplane, which I have since discovered was a Spartan Three, built by the Spartan Aircraft Company of Southampton.

Whilst my father was being helped into the front cockpit by the lady who sold the tickets, the pilot smiled at me and said something which I cannot remember, but years later my father told me that I had asked her to promise not to loop the loop as I would be sitting on my dad’s lap and would probably fall out!

The ticket lady lifted me up, lowered me onto dad’s lap in the front cockpit and strapped us in together. She then went to the front of the aircraft and began turning the propeller by hand until the engine burst into life.

My first ever flight was a wonderful experience that made a lasting impression on me. During the take-off run I kept my eyes tight closed because there was lots of dust swirling around inside the cockpit.

‘We’re up now old son open your eyes.’

It was at that moment I discovered the indescribable grandeur of flight, a magnificence that would one day be my privilege to experience as part of my everyday working life. I saw the light blue sky in contrast with the darker blue sea beneath. I could hear the powerful roar of the engine, and felt the wind blasting on my face. Then, as we passed over the coast heading towards the town, I could see tiny houses and cars and miniature trees that seemed for all the world that they were toys. There was very little impression of height or speed, it just seemed that everything had shrunk to a beautiful miniaturesized world, a world that made such an impression on me that it would stay with me for the rest of my life. My father held me tightly, I felt secure and happy…that’s one thing about dad, anything could be happening, but so long as I was with my father I always felt safe. It’s hard to believe that twenty four years later that same little boy sitting on his father’s lap would grow up to become a flying instructor and take his father up for flying lessons.

Although I was only three years old, the experience of flying reached through to the very heart of me, and even though there were very few private cars and even fewer aeroplanes around in those days, I somehow knew, that however difficult it may be to achieve, I would one day fly an aeroplane myself, I never once doubted that I would.

The next moment we were touching down on the grass, and rolling to a halt. I could see my mother, her expression had changed completely, beaming from ear to ear, as if to say she knew flying was perfectly safe all the time, and never had the slightest worry about it whatsoever. If only my dear mother had lived to see her son’s later success in the world of aviation.

The tall lady reappeared, undid our straps and lifted me down. I looked up admiringly at the pilot smiling down at me and thanked her. From that moment onwards my obsession with aeroplanes was a permanent part of my existence.

When I was five years old I was taken to attend my first day at school. On the way my mother met up with a friend who was also taking her little son to attend his first day at school. That was how I came to meet Eddy Baldock who was to become my dear friend for life.

Eddy came from a good honest working class family that lived in Holcombe Avenue. We met every day at the entrance to The Walks, a long avenue of trees in the centre of King’s Lynn, and sauntered off to school together.

Everybody’s first day at school is a memorable occasion; mine was no exception although I seem to remember more of the journey to school than the rest of the day.

The smell of damp freshly fallen leaves from the tall chestnut trees that formed Lynn Walks filled the air. It was a magic place to be at any time, but Autumn brings with it a special beauty. To this day whenever I smell wet fallen leaves, no matter where I am, it always reminds me of those happy journeys to school along that tree-lined path. On our way we past a circle of tall Birch trees known as the Seven Sisters, then over a little river bridge and through an archway in the remains of the old town wall. Clutching my mothers gloved hand, we would journey on further, passing the Red Mount Tower with its mystic tales of a torture chamber and underground tunnels. Crows always circled overhead calling to one another, then the occasional sound of a crack would denote a badly executed treetop landing that sent twigs hurtling downwards. We also had to pass close to the railway station. Black puffs of smoke would sometimes billow high into the clear air on the far side of a tall safety fence signifying the 8.30am train to London was about to leave.

‘That’s enough’ my mother said as I stooped to pick up just one more conker, ‘You’ll be late on your first day at school if we don’t hurry.’

Every shiny horse chestnut that lay partly hidden by the crimson leaves seemed bigger and more collectable than the last one. But my dear mother was making sure I would not be late for my first day at school, so conker collecting was over for that day.

As we approached the gates of St James Junior School, the ancient red brick building didn’t seem quite so welcoming as it had when my mother took me to view it from the outside a few days earlier!

Miss Wright was a kind looking lady who smiled a lot. She picked me up, gave me a gentle shake, as if to see if anything would drop off, and put me down again.

‘Miss Wright is going to be your teacher, now be a good boy, mummy will be back to collect you after school.’

She bent down, kissed me, and hurried away looking quite upset. I was whisked off and shown where to hang my hat and coat. Eddy received similar treatment, and before long we were sitting at a desk in a tiny, dimly lit classroom, but sadly not together. Each desk was shared by two children; I had to sit next to a plump girl with jam-jar bottom spectacles and short straight hair. Her name was Muriel Whittaker…We didn’t speak!

I can’t remember exactly what we did on my first day at school, but it passed quickly and without fuss. At midday I was given a bottle of milk that had been warmed by the classroom radiator, and sucked it up through a straw that passed through a cardboard milk bottle top. Such bottle tops would no doubt be considered as a collector’s item these days.

CHAPTER 2.

Volunteers.

The rain lashing down outside the hospital ward brought back more memories of my childhood. I remembered that it had been raining when my parents and I moved to our new home in Holcombe Avenue during the Winter of 1937.

At first I didn’t want to leave Wellington Street, but I could hardly believe my luck when my mother told me that our new house, number twenty-one was just a few doors away from No 14 where my new found friend Eddy lived.

Everything small enough had been packed into tea chests and cardboard boxes including most of my toys. Mother spent the whole of the final day cleaning number five Wellington Street so that it would be spotless for the next tenants to move in.

It was still raining when the removal men arrived with their horse drawn cart to take our possessions to our new home. Tarpaulins were stretched over the cart to protect our treasured belongings, but we were all soaked to the skin by the time we arrived at our destination. The houses on either side of No. 21 were still empty, but my friend Eddy was there to greet us, and Mrs. Baldock (Ed’s Mum) arrived with a thermos flask of tea and some freshly cut sandwiches. Fortunately the rain eased off and it was not long before the task of unloading the cart began. Dad was giving instructions to the removal men, and mother was busy unpacking the tea chests as they were brought into the house.

Number twenty-one was infinitely bigger and brighter than our old home. It had a large dining room, and a spacious sitting room (Referred to as the front room). The kitchen was much better than the little out-house we had been used to, and we rejoiced in the pure luxury of actually having a real bathroom. The one and only toilet was downstairs in a small brick-built extension adjacent to the back door, its slanting tiled roof was just below the window of the smallest of the three bedrooms, which incidentally was destined to become my bedroom.

My father was very proud of our few possessions, he had worked very hard for everything we owned, and like most fathers in those days he was also a very strict man. I loved him dearly, but one certain kind of look from him would terrorise me because I knew what usually followed. Moving in day unfortunately was not without tragedy for me.

It all started to go wrong when I was bringing in one of my toys that had been packed into a very large cardboard box, almost too big for me to carry. It contained my second hand Hornby Train-Set that had been given to me by my Uncle Mac. Staggering under the weight of the box, I entered the front door and started to climb the stairs with the intention of putting the train set under the bed in my newly designated bedroom. I was gripping the box firmly under my left arm. I’m hardly likely to forget which arm I had the box under as that was the key factor resulting in the disaster that followed. It happened that the stair banister rail was also on the left, so instead of supporting myself with the rail, I steadied myself against the wall with my right hand. As I neared the top of the stairs a voice immediately behind me thundered out…

‘Bloody Hell, look at that!!’

The words were undoubtedly directed at me and the voice was unmistakably my father’s. I froze on the spot, hardly daring to turn round to see what was wrong, but when I did my heart sank and I was left in no doubt that the incident had by no means been fully dealt with. To my horror I saw a clearly marked set of grubby little fingerprints stippled on the newly distempered wall tracing my progress up the stairs!

Unfortunately my problems didn’t end there. The sight of my black fingerprints coupled with the fury in my father’s voice served to activate one of my unfortunate weaknesses, and a yellowish puddle began to form at my feet. In seconds it reached the edge of the step on which I was standing, dripped gently down onto the next step, and from there on proceeded to bounce joyfully down the stairs like a half-hearted waterfall.

Dad was speechless, as his eyes traced the trickle on it’s way down towards him! What followed is a memory far too painful to recall… suffice to say that the excitement of the day ended in tears.

We soon settled in at No. 21, and within a few days the houses on either side had also become occupied.

First to arrive were the Canham family who moved into No.19 the other half of our semi-detached house. I remember they were more fortunate with the weather as it was quite a sunny day when they appeared on the scene with a horse and cart containing their belongings. My father had been struggling for most of the morning trying to make a start on our medium sized garden, which at the time resembled a builder’s tip more than a garden. He went out to greet the Canham’s, and in no time they were all standing in our kitchen sipping tea from Mum’s best cups! (Normally only brought out at Christmas) and talking about the merits of our new homes, all except Brian that is.

Brian, their son, was about my age. He stood peering at me from behind his mother’s skirt, rather like a cat eyeing up a mouse. It was obvious that we had taken an instant dislike to one another on sight.

Before long all the grown-ups were helping to unload our neighbour’s furniture from the horse and cart that stood patiently outside.

Brian and I were soon to become very good friends, but at this moment in time we never took our eyes off each other whilst our parents carefully carried furniture from the cart to the house.

It was during the unloading of the cart that I first met Mr. Hewitt, a neighbour from the opposite side of the road. Mr Hewitt was a Chemist by profession, he was also a keen gardener who loved children and was very much a boy at heart himself. He appeared from nowhere carrying a shovel and bucket, and quickly scooped up a large pile of horse manure almost before the last steaming lump had plopped to the ground. Smiling he patted the horse’s rear, and without a word to anyone whisked the valued contents of the bucket back to his garden.

‘Who the hells that?’ I heard my father say,

‘Sshh’, mum said ‘He’ll hear you.’

‘Well I could have done with that on my garden,’ dad mumbled.

‘What garden?’ mum asked ‘it’s just a jungle.’

Mrs. Canham seeing the likelihood of an argument interrupted with…

‘Don’t worry, he’ll probably do some more before we’ve finished unloading!’

At that moment the horse leaned forward slightly and started to pee. It seemed to go on forever; ejected with some considerable gusto it steamed and splashed several inches high before streaming down towards the roadside drain. All four grown-ups watched in silence, then Dad, determined to have the last word, said in a loud voice…

‘I notice he didn’t put his bucket under that.’

With that mum went into the house and slammed the door. I looked at Brian and he stuck his tongue out… Instant hate reigned!

A few days after the Canham’s had moved in, Mr and Mrs Waters together with their dog Tony arrived to take over their house at number twenty-three and became our other neighbours. Mr Waters turned out to be a policeman, a very friendly man who adored children and loved to play practical jokes. In short our neighbours on either side were lovely people, and unbeknown to us, with world war two looming up, we were to share many happy and sad experiences together.

A week or so went by. We were still trying to sort out where to put our possessions in the new house.

‘That will have to go soon Ray,’ mother was pointing to my little pedal car.

‘You’re far too old for that, and I doubt if you can get in it now anyway.’

I recalled just how much I loved that red pedal car. As far as I can remember it was the only time in my life when a car took precedence over an aeroplane. In the 1930s it must have been difficult for my parents to find the money for such an expensive toy, and of course Father Christmas quite undeservedly got all the credit!

I was eight years old when World War Two broke out in 1939. My father was called away so I spent all five years of the war living with my Mother.

Norfolk soon became inundated with military airfields, and the drone of highflying aeroplanes was commonplace.

A few months after the war had started, I was playing in the garden when suddenly the loud roar of an aeroplane engine made me jump out of my wits! I looked up to see a Spitfire skim overhead just a few feet above the rooftops. The impressive sight of that sleek aeroplane added to my keenness to fly when I grew up.

Most Saturday mornings my friend Eddy and I would walk around Lynn town centre looking in shop windows, or on occasions stroll down to the docks to take a look at the ships. We always used to take Tony with us. Tony was the black Labrador belonging to the Waters family that lived next door. He was a lovely old dog that never had to be on a lead, he would just trot along with us, and apart from delicately sniffing the occasional lamppost he never left our side.

It was one such Saturday morning when Eddy and I set off accompanied by Tony to visit the RAF Recruiting Office in King’s Lynn High Street. Smartly dressed with well-polished shoes, we entered the office confidently where we were confronted by a very tall RAF Sergeant with a large bushy moustache that curled up at the ends.

‘How can I help you lads?’ he said.

All my courage drained away at this point and I just stood there in silence. Eddy gave me a firm poke with his elbow urging me to get on with my planned speech.

‘I…er… that is we, would like to join the RAF and become Spitfire Pilots please,’ my voice tapering off to a whisper.

The Sergeant’s eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. With no sign of a smile he leaned forward and said quietly…

‘I see.’

Eddy finding a smidgen of courage suddenly blurted out…

‘Yes that’s right, my brother is in the RAF so we know all about it ….er.. sir.’

The Sergeant scratched his head.

‘And how old might you young men be?’ He addressed his remark to Eddy.

‘We’re nearly eighteen sir’ he said unconvincingly.

Looking back now this might have been a little more believable if we hadn’t been wearing our school caps and short trousers!

The RAF man smiled warmly, thought for a moment then gesturing with his finger for us to draw closer to him, said…

‘This being wartime, we have to be very careful that we don’t allow enemy spies to join the RAF.’

He fumbled around in the drawer of his desk and produced a couple of complicated looking forms.

‘Now I want you two to take these forms to your mum and get her to fill them in for you, we must also have a letter from her, and another from your school teacher to say you are nearly eighteen, that you are very courageous, and definitely brave enough to become a Spitfire Pilot. Now you do that for me and bring them back here, and I will see what can be done.’

He held out his large hand and gave us both a warm handshake. As we left the recruiting office feeling quite miserable, the RAF Sergeant called after us…

‘What about the little dog?’

‘His name is Tony and he will be joining up as our mascot.’ I said, now almost in tears.

Full of disappointment, we didn’t say very much to one another on the way home.

Perhaps it was a bit too soon I thought, after all he may have spotted that we were only nine, but one day maybe we will be more successful.

Not long after the war started, the children in our avenue formed a gang, and I somehow became the undisputed leader of the unimaginatively named Holcombe Avenue Gang.

There was a large building site at the end of the avenue where more houses were planned to be built, but all construction work ceased immediately when war broke out, consequently the building site, with all the builders huts and materials still in place, formed a wonderful area for our gang to play in.

A dyke separated the land from an area known as the Lynn Chase. There were several boys at our school that belonged to the Chase Gang. So seeing that Great Britain had declared war on Germany, we thought it right and proper for the Holcombe Avenue Gang to declare war on the Chase Gang.

I decided that all the members of my gang would have army ranks, as leader I elected myself to be a Major. Second in command was my mate Eddy, who held the rank of Captain. Third in command was Brian Canham from next door who was also a Captain, mainly because he wouldn’t play unless he was! The oldest member was David Brinn who was nearly twelve. David was much bigger than any of us, and was considered an excellent front line soldier in the event of dealing with the enemy at close quarters.

Other members of the gang were Brian Garwood known as Gizzy, he was a policeman’s son, Alan Giles who’s father owned a garage and petrol station, Terrence Michael Hugh Anthony Smith, not only did he have this amazingly long name but he also had a seven year old sweetheart called Diana who unfortunately kept him from active Gang matters on most days as he would sit in our observation tree near to the dyke and complain that he was too love-sick to play! Unfortunately Terry’s dad was an Officer in the RAF and was later to be reported as missing. There was also Richard Baker who I think was about seven years old and the son of a schoolteacher, and Adrian Brown, better known as Flop. Flop had beautiful Jug-Handle ears, which made him an easy target for torture practice…. He also happened to be the smallest and youngest member of the gang. The nursing section consisted of Meg Davidson, Jill Pooley, Glenna Hanton, and Terry’s sweetheart Diana Back, who’s mum kept a fish and chip shop.

As a gang we were more regimental than most. The appearance of our uniforms depended on what scraps of clothing and material our mothers could muster up. They were all slightly different, which technically I suppose meant they were anything but uniform. Nevertheless, we all tried to dress like soldiers of one kind or another. For instance, Gizzy’s mother made him a beautiful kilt out of bright green Scots Plaid material and his sporran was constructed from two fluffy hand brushes tied together. Sadly my mum didn’t have any Scots Plaid material, so I had a kilt made of pink material that looked strangely like a dress! My sporran was made out of an old piece of white linen. The rank of Major caused a little problem because I couldn’t get hold of two matching crowns. So on one shoulder I had a brass crown, and on the other was a beautiful guilt padded badge from an RAF hat. Brian Canham had a Postman’s uniform that his mum bought from Woolworth’s, very smart. I can’t remember what the rest of the gang wore, but although we were all dressed differently; we looked a fine body of men!

The war with Germany was increasing in its intensity. The Prime Minster, Mr Winston Churchill, made frequent speeches on the radio, his inspiring words left no-one in any doubt about the seriousness of the situation, or that, in the end, we would win. Posters appeared everywhere warning us that Careless talk costs lives, the idea being that there could be spies working amongst us. The Holcombe Avenue Gang were convinced that the Chase Gang were definitely spies, so we made up our minds to knock "seven bells out of em" every Saturday afternoon with possibly a short break for tea of course.

Fortunately for the Holcombe Avenue Gang the builders had left hundreds of old bricks and rubble lying around the site, which was now our battlefield, and such materials could be used in our war against the Chase Gang. It wasn’t long before we built ourselves a very respectable looking fortress as our gang headquarters. The walls were two bricks thick, and although not cemented together, provided a very secure structure. We also dug out a slit trench a few yards in the front of the Fort, but because the members of the Chase Gang were bigger than us, our trench proved to be difficult to climb out of in a hurry when events frequently called for a strategic retreat.

Wars continued to be fought on Saturday afternoons. The Chase Gang would suddenly appear climbing over the close boarded fence that separated the building site from the tree lined dyke, an area we called no-mans land, in other words the boundary between Chase Close and Holcombe Avenue. Some parts of the boarded fencing were completely missing which could have been a great advantage to us had it not been for the dyke itself being too wide to cross at certain points.

Usually, at the commencement of battle, both sides would charge screaming out their gang’s war-cry, hurling stones and anything up to the size of half a house brick at the opposing side whilst protecting themselves effectively with the aid of a dustbin-lid which made a very good shield. Homemade catapults were sometimes used, but in the main stone throwing was more effective. A battle could be won or lost by a carefully aimed pebble. The Chase Gang had to retreat when they ran out of stones, whilst our gang being on the building site, had an inexhaustible supply of ammunition.

We did have a few casualties of course; the first to fall in the line of duty was Flop, the smallest member of our gang. One Saturday morning, we were preparing for war when I had the idea of constructing a couple of very nasty booby traps for the enemy to fall into. One of these traps was situated in front of our fortress and the other in the centre of a path that led from the entrance of the building site to our fort.

We dug two large holes about a couple of feet deep. Each hole contained a barrow load of reasonably fresh horse manure sprinkled with a few sundry lengths of dog muck mixed up with a modicum of dyke water and builder’s lime found on the site. The texture came down to a sort of jelly wobbliness that smelt terrible! The holes were then covered with pieces of roofing felt scattered with a covering of grass and small twigs. Great care was taken to make sure that there were no telltale signs that would give away the position of our traps. We did however take the wise precaution of marking each trap with a small stick placed upright in the ground alongside the holes so that our gang knew where the traps were.

There was one very nasty moment when we saw a policeman, who turned out to be Gizzy’s father, walking up the path and heading straight for the booby trap. We all ran out to greet him just managing to stop him before he reached the edge of our latest defences! His purpose was to collect Gizzy and take him back home to have his dinner.

Flop however was not so lucky. Being the youngest member of the gang he had been posted on guard as lookout. He was sitting in the small slit trench outside the fort, the rest of us were inside filling up old paint tins with suitable stones for ammunition. Suddenly we heard high-pitched screams from Flop.

‘They’re here, they’re here the Chase Gang are here.’

We ran out to see Flop desperately struggling to drag himself out of our slit trench. He was wearing his school cap back-to-front because he said he looked more like a pirate, and that would undoubtedly frighten the enemy. Two of the Chase Gang were climbing over the fence and heading our way. I immediately gave the order to ‘CHARGE.’ Eddy, Brian, Terry, Gizzy and Alan all started to run with me, each of us brandishing our dustbin lids and hurling stones for all we were worth at the enemy. Flop in a mood of sheer panic, having extracted himself from the slit trench, initiated a personal retreat, passing us like a rocket running in the opposite direction!

The Chase Gang, probably more frightened by Flop’s screams, than our attack, fled back to the fence. At that moment we heard a terrific CRACK SPLOOSH sound that emanated from the general direction of our booby-traps… Flop had disappeared altogether. We all stood in wide mouthed astonishment waiting for Flop to reappear. A small dripping ghost-like figure slowly emerged, emitting strange gurgling noises and smelling very nasty, from the cesspool depths of our newly constructed booby-trap. The staggering little figure tried to stand up, but on the first attempt slid gracefully down to the bottom again and disappeared in a crescendo of bubbling sobs. As there was a definite danger of contaminating our own clothes, and subsequently being in serious trouble with our mothers, I ordered my men to stand back. We watched in amazement as first one hand, then the other, followed by a cap-less dripping head with jug handle ears appeared from the hole in the ground. Sobs turned to screams, and screams to sobs. Flop was covered from head to foot in a fudge-textured blend of lime, horse-muck and dog-crap. No more the brave pirate of moments earlier. The brownish-grey mass was now requesting the presence of his mother, a thought that struck fear into the hearts of all the members of our gang. I looked back toward no-mans land to see the Chase lads climbing the fence, giggling as they disappeared over the far side.

I was not happy with Flop, who in his state of panic had turned his back on the enemy and run full speed into our own booby trap. He would have to be dealt with for desertion in the face of the enemy of course, a crime that warranted limitless torture. But for the time being, taking into account the safety of my men and myself when Flop’s mother discovered the state he was in, I considered it wise to get him into the Field Hospital where our nurses could hopefully clean him up a bit.

In the event it turned out that we couldn’t catch him. Flop had taken off propelling his smelly little body as fast as he could for home. Eddy, my second in command, suggested that it might be a good idea for us to spend the rest of the day practising the art of camouflage, in addition to posting a lookout for Flop’s mother of course.

Adrian Brown (Flop), was really a lovely little chap bless him. Looking back now I am ashamed at the things we put him through, but Flop was a little hero and always wanted to be with us. He was therefore a handy sort of chap to assist in trying out new inventions! His finest asset was he trusted us implicitly and volunteered for everything.

I recall that there was one particular experiment in which dear Flop was called upon to play a very important part…

One section of the dyke that separated Lynn Chase from Holcombe Avenue was difficult to cross because of the width of the water at that point. As it was the closest point to Chase Close, home of the Chase Gang, it was important for us to find a method of crossing the dyke at this point. So my third in command, Brian Canham and I got our heads together and thought up an ingenious invention that would assist our gang in crossing the dyke at any point that was too wide to jump. This contrivance called for a volunteer to act as a sort of test pilot, and Flop was once again ordered to volunteer!

In our search for suitable materials to construct our invention, we found part of a heavy metal lawn roller completely rusted up without its handle. It had been dumped with lots of other rubbish on the edge of the building site, no doubt destined to remain there for the duration of the war. Without too much difficulty we managed to manoeuvre the roller near to the edge of the dyke at its widest point. Brian, who was good at sums, worked out that if we put a long scaffold plank over the roller so that it balanced rather like a see-saw, we could have one man (Flop) stand on one end of the plank, whilst the heaviest member of the gang could jump onto the opposite end from the top of a step ladder, this would undoubtedly catapult our volunteer over the dyke with ease. Excellent thinking.

Eddy brought along a tall step ladder that his father used for decorating, whilst the rest of us sorted out a strong looking scaffolding plank from a pile left on site by the building contractors. The 25ft plank was so heavy that it took four of us some time to manoeuvre it into position. We placed it on the roller so that it balanced nicely with one end just on the verge of the dyke. The stepladder was positioned at the opposite end so that Brian, who happened to be the heaviest member of the gang, could jump from the top of the ladder onto the end of the plank…. All was ready. Our hero, little Flop, came prepared wearing his rubber boots, school blazer, short grey trousers and a large scarf wrapped twice round his neck. His school cap was replaced by the toy tin hat he had been given for Christmas. When he first arrived on the scene the little chap took one look at our contraption and made a run for it! But he was captured, and after a minimal amount of persuasion re-volunteered! There followed a short briefing so that everyone knew exactly what they were expected to do.

Flop, almost apologetically mentioned that he’d like to change his mind, that is if we didn’t mind of course. This cowardly state of affairs could not be tolerated. I told him that he wasn’t entering into the spirit of things and that he needed to alter his frame of mind right away. With that two of us lifted Flop onto the end of the plank closest to the dyke…. Flop turned rather pale, and wasn’t his usual chirpy self. Brian, brave as ever, climbed the step ladder and stood poised at the top looking down at his intended landing area six feet below, which incidentally had been carefully marked with a white chalk cross to avoid confusion. Eddy, erring on the side of safety, moved further away and sat down on the grass.

It had been decided that on the count of three, Brian would leap from his position at the top of the ladder onto the plank, and the rest should be plain sailing.

Being the head of the gang, I unflinchingly took on the tricky job of the count-down! I looked around at my men. Brian was in a crouching position ready to jump, Eddy, still sitting on the ground, was now sucking a long stem of grass and looking intently at our volunteer. Flop, his large ears protruding from under his toy tin hat, looked at me with a forced grin on his face and terror in his eyes. I ordered him to brace himself. ONE.. TWO..THREE..JUMP, my words came out confidently without any sign of nerves or concern for my own safety! Brian hesitated for a moment, obviously considering his own well-being, then bravely leapt into the air landing spot on the white cross.

We all looked on in stunned amazement as Flop’s knees almost hit him under his chin, then like a rocket he shot up into the air with a most impressive blood-curdling scream! reaching a height of about eight feet.

Our mouths wide open with astonishment; we followed Flop’s progress as he came crashing down through an overhanging bush just missing the end of the plank and straight into the dyke with an enormous splash. The depth of the water at his point of impact was about eighteen inches deep. There he sat, head and shoulders out of the water, his tin hat cocked over one eye, and to our utter amazement still managing to force a smile! True character building stuff.

Eddy ran forward as Flop pushed his tin hat onto the back of his head, and threw him the special rope with rescue handles at each end (Meg Davidson’s skipping rope), and together we dragged Flop out of the mud to safety.

We dried Flop’s clothes as best we could in front of a hastily prepared bonfire. Then our brave volunteer staggered off home steaming a little and looking strangely different to the smart little boy who turned up for the experiment. He had however been very carefully briefed that his mission had been TOP SECRET, and under no circumstances should he tell his mother!

I remember there was also a funny incident concerning an anonymous lad, believed to be one of the older members of the chase gang, and our neighbour Mr Hewitt. This, to the best of my memory, is how the incident was recorded in story form. …

Mr Hewitt paused for a moment to relight the dead embers of his much-admired Sherlock Holmes type pipe. Pleased with the progress he had made on his vegetable garden, he felt that he owed it to himself to take a short break, straighten his aching back and enjoy a few well-earned puffs of his pipe.

The very end of the garden where he had been digging, was separated from the chase dyke by a six-foot high close-boarded fence which was well weathered and treated regularly with generous amounts of creosote. He had been preparing his potato patch near to the fence, and took little notice of the noise coming from members of the Chase Gang who were playing out of sight on the far side. The ditch itself was well camouflaged by bushes and small trees, and a plank had been placed across the ditch at its narrowest point to make a bridge, thus providing a wonderful secret place for children to play, their imagination turning the area into anything from a fairy glen to a Japanese Jungle. Also the fence being pitted here and there with knotholes of various shapes and sizes, provided excellent spy holes and gun positions for the imaginary wars being fought on the far side. As it turned out however, some of the older children had more imagination than others!

Mr Hewitt heard the clink of cups in the kitchen signalling that Mrs Hewitt was preparing a much-welcomed cup of tea.

Life had been kind to Mr Hewitt, although the country was at war he had escaped call-up due to his exempt occupation as a chemist. Although he sometimes felt a twinge of guilt, he was grateful that he was able to stand in the peace of his garden whilst many of his friends had gone to war and were experiencing a far from peaceful time.

Still admiring his handy work, Hewitt noticed that he had missed a small clump of stinging nettles that lay close to the fence and needed removing. He knew that Mrs Hewitt was meticulous by nature, and would point out the weeds in a flash, that certainly wouldn’t do.

Stooping down to pick up the nettles he suddenly stopped dead, his pipe struck the ground as his mouth opened wide in astonishment at the sight before his eyes.

There, not six inches away from his face, was a small erect penis pointing directly at him through a conveniently placed knothole in the fence. At the same instant he heard the jingling of a cup and saucer accompanied by the unmistakable footsteps of Mrs Hewitt coming up the path behind him, she had decided to inspect the work done so far on the potato patch and reward her husband with a hot drink and a digestive biscuit.

Mr Hewitt quickly reflected that his wife, being of a religious nature, would probably get the wrong idea and not take too kindly to the sight of her husband’s face being close to the offensive object poking through the fence.

There was little time to spare. Hewitt’s weekend training in the Home Guard (Dad’s Army) came immediately to the fore. Totally disregarding any pain to himself, he grabbed the freshly dug nettles from the ground and swiped the unsuspecting penis a deadly blow. Little Willie shot back through the knothole with the speed of light accompanied by a muffled scream from its owner on the far side of the fence.

A gentle voice from behind Mr Hewitt whispered…

‘What’s the matter dear, are the wasps troubling you?… I’ve brought you a nice cup of hot tea and two of your favourite biscuits.’

Further investigation revealed that some adolescent lad had made a gruesome life-sized chalk drawing of his idea of a naked female body on the far side of the fence, and I would imagine that he was left with a tingling memory of his imaginary sexual experience.

CHAPTER 3.

The Old Tobacco Tin.

My father had been posted away leaving me to spend the war with my mother. The first bombs to fall on Kings Lynn during the 1939-1945 war fell at the end of August 1940; the town was visited by the Luftwaffe on the 28th, 30th and 31st of the month. Prior to that the air-raid sirens had sounded on numerous occasions, each time nothing significant happened, consequently everyone had become complacent about air-raid warnings, and we probably kidded ourselves that Lynn would never feel the wrath of the enemy. The fact that all the students from the Hackney Downs Secondary School had been evacuated to Kings Lynn from London gave most people the impression that the British Government considered East Anglia to be safe from German air attacks, consequently when bombs did finally drop on the town it came as a shock to everyone.

The sirens sounded as they had many times before. As usual my mother and I got dressed in order to take cover in the Anderson Shelter we shared with the Canham family. There was certainly no hurry to get down there as we all felt sure it was just a repeat performance of all the other uneventful air-raid warnings we had experienced over the last twelve months.

As we walked out into our back garden we paused to look up at the gleaming white shafts of light from the searchlights that lit up the ghostly patterns of a few small clouds. There was no Moon, and when the sirens ceased their morbid wailing, the ominous drone of aircraft engines could be heard in the distance.

The noise from the aircraft engines gradually died away. Mrs. Canham’s soft voice broke the silence…

‘Fred says there’s a red alert at the A.R.P. Station, he’s just gone back there, this could be it Maggie, Fred thinks they’re definitely coming tonight.’

‘O.K. Nora’ mum replied taking my hand. ‘Come on Raymond dear, we’d better get down into the shelter.’

We walked cautiously in the darkness of the blackout, feeling our way down the unlit path towards the air-raid shelter.

As Brian and his mother entered the hatchway, we again heard the distant drone of aircraft engines, this time they seemed to be getting nearer. We followed on into the shelter. The entrance hatch was extremely heavy, far too heavy in fact for any of us to lower from inside. So the strong prop was left in place awaiting the return of Mr Canham.

I peered at the sky through the open hatch and saw that many more searchlights had joined in the hunt for enemy bombers. It now seemed certain that the aircraft we could hear approaching the town were hostile.

Safely inside the shelter my mother drew the thick black anti-gas curtain across the opening and struck a match to light one of the tiny Night-Lights. These specially made wartime candles were about an inch and a half in diameter and about an inch high, they were designed to stand in a saucer of water where they could float around in safety giving off a dim flickering glow. Mum was just about to light a second candle when we heard a distinct whistling sound, almost immediately it was joined by a second slightly higher pitched whistle. Everyone in the shelter stood in petrified silence as the whistling turned into a full-blooded scream. The ground shook violently to a muffled CRUMP, a split second later there was an ear-splitting BANG that jolted the shelter like a boat colliding with the bank. Small chunks of earth fell to the floor through cracks that appeared in the corrugated iron roof-joints of the shelter, and the dim light from the candle grew dimmer as the air became polluted with fine particles of dust. There were about three further explosions, followed by an eerie silence broken only by the throbbing sound of distant aeroplane engines.

Mother put her arms around me, holding me very close to her trembling body and whispered….

‘Oh my God.’

The shelter hatch was still open, but there was no sign of the gas-curtain that had previously covered the entrance. Fearing the light may be seen from outside, my mother blew out the candle. Instantly we saw the sky had turned golden red reflecting flames from the fires where the bombs had fallen. In the distance, someone was repeatedly blowing a whistle; the inauspicious drone of aircraft engines could still be heard, whilst the four of us crouched in the shelter, each with our own thoughts of what the future held.

The war for many young schoolboys was an exciting time. Up until now all we really knew about death and destruction were the stories we heard on the radio or read about in the newspapers. It was something that always happened to other people, never to us. But the real facts were very different. Practically every street and avenue in the town would sooner or later be visited by the dreaded telegram boy who had the unpleasant task of handing over that fearful message from the War Office. A trembling hand would take the telegram, and behind closed doors a terrified mother would read the heartrending message that always began…. ‘The war office regrets to inform you that…..’ Curtains would be drawn, and neighbours would call to offer sympathy and comfort.

One Saturday morning, such a telegram was delivered to the door of number fourteen Holcombe Avenue.

‘Eddy is here’ my mother said, having seen him pass our kitchen window.

I ran to greet him thinking he was calling to see if I was coming out to play with the gang, but when I opened the door I instantly knew something terrible had happened. Eddy stood there unable to say a thing, his eyes swollen from crying. My mother saw the state he was in and instantly put her arms around him guiding him into the house. Ed sat down on the chair beside our fireplace; my mother knelt beside him cupping his head in her hands trying to comfort him. For a long time he was unable to speak. Then between sobs Eddy told us that his mother had just received a telegram informing her that Lewis, Eddy’s eldest brother, had been shot down over Germany and killed. One could hardly begin to imagine the heartbreak and misery that such terrible news brought to his family. Eddy was so proud of his brother, always telling me about the letters he received from him, and his escapades in the RAF where he flew as a Flight Engineer in Lancaster Bombers. My mother continued to cuddle Eddy whilst the three of us cried together. From that moment on I began to appreciate the true horrors of war.

It was not long after when my mother, who had been out shopping, rushed into the house, dropped her bag of groceries, and flung herself