Remembrance.

[Del Boy]

So soon after our Remembrance day , when ex-evacuees marched with the military at the Cenotaph, I received a stark reminder on Sunday last; news that my foster aunt Vera, with whose family I spent WW11, had died at 9am. She was 98.

I kept in touch with her from time to time throughout my life; I visited with my dad at about 12 years of age; I called on them at 20 at Easter on my return from Egypt as a soldier; I visited with my young children once; I sent congratulations and a bouquet on the occasion of her golden wedding; condolences on the death of her husband many years ago, he had been the officer i/c the Home Guard, 'Dad's Army'; and I visited her in her village when they celebrated their 1000 year 'Songs of Praise' after I had been gone 50 years.

So, sometime next week I will pray once again, and probably for the last time, when I return to give thanks and pay the respects of myself and my family at the little Saxon church in the village known in the 19th century as 'The Garden of Eden' , in beautiful Somerset.

Her brother, who was in the RAF throughout WW11, is organising the funeral arrangements, and may well be playing the great organ, which I used to pump as a choir-boy. He is 94 years of age.

I will meet up once more with the little girl who was the family grand-daughter and exactly the same age as me, and who came and stayed at the house on the night I arrived unexpectedly from London as a four - year old, just to keep me company.

Before I leave I will be sure to call, as always, at the site of the Canadian and US Army camp , where , as a kid, I met so many young soldiers who had come to our aid, and were preparing for D-Day.


I will then be able to put my formative years behind me, with heartfelt gratitude. I look at that village and see it as it was in WW11, now long gone; the memories of most have faded with the years of familiarality. Such is life!

 

[LeEnfield]

Nice sentiments Del Boy.................Your evacuation sounded like it was a great deal better than mine

 

[Del Boy]

Nice sentiments Del Boy.................Your


Well Le - It was a disciplined upbringing, strict but kindly farm and community, but I wouldn't say that I ever enjoyed it at the time. My only desire always was to get back to London to my Mum and Dad, not realising that wasn't going to happen - because Mum and Dad had become Mum and new uncle (Dunkirk surviver), Dad and new aunt! So life had altered completely. Thank- you Hitler!

However, I look back and realise how lucky I was, and I champion that family and that village whenever I can, out of great respect and gratitude. My old foster grandad, Cornelius, was the village carpenter, so funerals were an emergency, for the coffin to be made, and I used help him by holding sides into position as he warped and glued them for the shoulder shape. I used to be up to my knees in the wood shavings. He also built and decorated the wagons, and he was the village blacksmith, shoeing the horses and setting rims on wagon-wheels etc. He led the mourners at burials and I served as choir-boy. As well as this he ran his little farm, orchard, wheatfield, vegetables, soft-fruit, so i got into the harvest, the threshing, haymaking, haystacks, and cider-making. I collected all the fallers for the cider, everyday, all the eggs from the hedges, helped with feeding the pigs etc. Chased the starlings from the wheatfields all day sometimes!

When I was in the army and turned up unexpectedly at Easter, they persuaded me to stay, but they said as long as you don't mind sharing a bed with Grandad again! We lay there back to back and eventually he grunted 'Delboy' - Yes says I - 'Just like old times, ain't it'! 'Right Grandad.'

What a guy - I was privileged to meet him, but i didn't appreciate all that in those days. I wrote a poem about him and the place some time ago which was published, so hopefully, sometime, somewhere, they will live again, if only for a moment.

Some guys were nothing like as lucky, I know. But it was funny how it came about. The bus- load of us from Bridge Road school , Stratford , East London, arrived with another at the village hall, (where I will be again nextweek, first time inside since the war) and I sat on my little case with my gas-mask, and two of us were very small, only just 4 years. So when villagers came to choose, no-one would have us two. Me and Ronnie. When the doors closed at night, we were still sat there. So the Billetting Officer, who was in charge, a grandma herself with a grown up family, took us over the road to her house as an emergency measure. And that was it! After a short time, Ronnie went home, but I stayed with her for the duration, more or less, when all the other evacuees were long gone.

In the village i was known as 'Curly' as a kid; so next week I am going to try to avoid a haircut, so at least I can retain my curls at the back! If my wife will let me get away with it! I would not like it if the villager didn't recognise me - after all, it was only 63 years ago.

 

[LeEnfield]

I got stuck in a small village in Leicestershire and I can still remember it's name, well all the people want to take was little girls. Now my sister fell on her feet wound up at a big house with stables and horse to ride. Now I got shoved around from pillar to post, and as a young lad I had to kill and clean the animals we ate, I don't know if you have ever had to work a butter churn by hand but that was bloody hard work. The teacher at the local school thought every one from the London area kept their coal in their bath. ind you we lived in a better house in Kent than I ever saw in this village. The teachers main aim was to beat some sense into you and used the cane with great gusto on all the evacuees. Now he would hit you on the hand half dozen times first thing in the morning to remind you to behave. ~Well got quite used to that so he would make me turn my hand over and hit me me over the knuckles, well I got so used to that that i would relax and let the hand fall as the cane hit it, so he would lay my hand on the desk and then hit it. Well I refused to fry and stared with great hatred at him which used to make him madder than ever. One day my mother managed to make the journey to see how we were getting on and was appalled at the state of me that we went home on the next train.

 

[Del Boy]

Sad one that Le - a lot of kids had a rough time, didn't they. Glad your Mum sorted it. Truth is, we all would have been happier with our Mums, i reckon, bombs or not. That teacher, sadist; all that did was beat one devil out and two in. As it happens you survived well; I think there is a great rally of some sort next year, but to be honest, I don't really go for the group events or joining things.

No, I've never had the peasure of the butter churn job, but I did drag out the big hams for basting every day. And at the village hall i will visit again next week, in the first year , there was a concert, and me and Ronnie got up on stage and gave them 'Hands knees and bumps a daisy' and then 3 rounds with the great big gloves. I won't be repeating either.

 

[Del Boy]

Well, I went back to that little church, and we saw Aunt Vera off in style. 98.RIP.

Many of the family and villagers remembered me from WW11, and it was just like being home again. In the church I saw they have a plaque to one of their Vicars - 1914 - 42. As a tiny boy I served at his funeral and burial. His son was there and produced a large photograph of me as a choir-boy in those days and enjoyed passing it around.

We drove from 70 or so miles away, and we got there early, before anyone else, so that I could get these two pictures to remember the day. Note the Redwoods.

As i did so, I was reminded of two poems about England's quandary, what we once had and what we have now. It concerns me tha most folk now do not remember what real freedom was.:-



"The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk-- I cannot feel his mind.

I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock, They may do ill or well,

But they tell the lies I am wanted to.They are used to the lies I tell;

And we do not need interpreters When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good,

But I cannot tell what powers control--What reasons sway his mood;

Nor when the Gods of his far-off land Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock Bitter bad they may be,

But, at least, they hear the things I hear And see the things I see;

And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief And this is also mine:

Let the corn be all one sheaf--And the grapes be all one vine,

Ere our children's teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine."

Rudyard Kipling. 1865 -1936.

and:-
"That before I snuff it, the whole boiling will be bricked in
Except the tourist parts-
First slum of Europe: a role it won't be hard to win,
With a cast of crooks and tarts.
And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There'll be books; it will linger on In galleries; but all that remainsFor us will be concrete and tyres."
Philip Larkin 1972.

 

[Padre]

Nice story Del, and good pics

 

[Del Boy]

Thank you Padre - WW11, that's all. It was a pleasure to put on record my gratitude after a life-time. These were war efforts by country folk. The same family hosted and commanded the Home-Guard force in their fields.
I was with them last week, as I said, and they haven't changed!