PART 1
Wherever we were, we had arrived. And not one of us knew where.
The hush of expectancy was broken only by an occasional nervous whisper as more than a hundred of us crowded into the tiny courtyard at the front of the village school. The throng spilled over the pavement and on to the deserted high street. Each of us displayed a large white label tied to a buttonhole, bearing witness to our identity as a 鈥渧accy.鈥
It was September 1939, just a day or two after the outbreak of World War 2.
Mr Wynne Jones, our London headmaster, emerged from the school doorway. He carefully hauled himself up on to a chair someone had placed for him, so that he towered over us.
For a moment, he said nothing. Like a general, he surveyed his troops, a motley, questioning assembly, distinguished only by our variety of small kitbags and hand-gripped attach茅 cases. At last, he spoke.
鈥淲ell,鈥 he said, 鈥淲e鈥檙e at war, boys.鈥
There was a reverential hush as we waited expectantly. For a moment the head appeared nonplussed, as though he had expected some other reaction. One of his teachers whispered something to him. The headmaster gave what appeared to be an embarrassed gasp.
鈥淚鈥檓 sorry, boys,鈥 he apologised. 鈥淚 should have made myself clear.
鈥淭his...er, where we are...is Warboys - the village of Warboys, in the county of Huntingdonshire.
鈥淪o you could say: 鈥榃e are at war, boys - in Warboys...鈥欌
And at that point Mr Wynne Jones changed the subject. He apparently decided he had laboured the joke enough, or what those who recognised his style of humour strongly suspected was a joke.
What followed felt even less of a joke to us boys. We seemed to be standing in that forecourt for ages while various strangers, women and men, came and peered at us and at our identity badges.
The flimsy, thin, buff-coloured cardboard larger-than-life baggage labels secured to our coats or jackets by white string were a Government regulation requirement, which bore our surnames, hand-scrawled in large letters.
I waited with three others, by chance all from my own class, so around my own age of just nine years. One of them, Freddy Marsh, was my friend.
He was also, by natural selection, accident, and design, forever 鈥榩aired鈥 with a friend of his, one Dennis Pry. Almost exactly the same height and small for their age, both were blue-eyed blonds. Though not facially alike, they were treated as twins by pupils and teachers, as they were constant companions.
The fourth was Tommy S-----, whose surname I won鈥檛 spell out for reasons that will become clear.
Earlier, a small convoy of buses had ferried us, a junior school party, some 8 miles from Huntingdon station and deposited us in this village high street. With our band of teachers, we had travelled sixty-five miles from Finsbury Park station in London, but to us it seemed like a thousand.
Aged between 8 and 11 years, we represented three large classes or about 90% of all the boys of Montem Street elementary school in the smoke-blackened Victorian streets of the north London Borough of Islington.
We learnt later that the Montem Street girls鈥 school next door had gone to another village or small town nearer Huntingdon (inevitably splitting up some families for the first time).
Finally, it was time for the billeting officer, complete with clipboard, to move in our direction. So many of our companions had already been selected and driven away (as Dennis wickedly put it: 鈥...to the slaughterhouse鈥).
Now we would learn where our new wartime homes were to be as we waited to be allocated to households of local people who had volunteered or been required to take us in.
鈥淎h!鈥 he said, pouncing on us as he checked his list, 鈥淔our of you. That鈥檚 just what I want.鈥
He called up a volunteer car driver and gave directions. 鈥...To the house of a sweet old lady at the edge of the village,鈥 as he explained to us.
Someone in the reception committee rushed forward as we took our seats in the back of the car and gave each of us a half-pound bar of milk chocolate. It was the largest bar of chocolate I had ever seen in my life.
It was also the last of its kind I would see again for a very long time.
Minutes later we were being greeted by the 鈥渟weet old lady,鈥 a grey-haired widow at the door of her cottage, named 鈥淕arden Gate.鈥 She invited us and our driver in and carefully studied the scribbled names on our labels, asking us unnecessarily to confirm each inscription.
鈥淚 think you will have to wear them for a few days until I know who鈥檚 who,鈥 she said, then hastily added when she saw our reaction, mirrored, I have to say, by the expression of our escort:
鈥淣o, perhaps not. I was only joking.鈥
We were finally on our own with her. We had cleared her prepared table of bread, and some as yet-unrationed butter and ham (we hadn鈥檛 eaten since breakfast and privately agreed we were 鈥渟tarving鈥) when someone - I think it was Tommy - produced his bar of chocolate.
But even before he could unwrap it, our hostess reached over and took it from him. She asked if we had any of our own, and innocently we all produced our precious bars.
Carefully gathering them up, she wrapped them together in a paper bag and pronounced: 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think you should have any of these now. It might make you sick during the night. I鈥檒l keep them all safe for you.鈥
That night was one I shall never forget. Four of us in a small bedroom, probably no more than ten feet square, with one small chest of drawers, the floor covered in shiny Victorian-patterned linoleum.
On that floor, were four very large hessian sacks filled with straw which overflowed through their buttoned openings. Nothing else.
As we stood, dumbstruck, goggling at the sacks, the old lady, who had left us on our own for a moment, suddenly re-appeared at the door with a blanket for each of us.
鈥淚t鈥檚 warm in here,鈥 she said, anticipating our questions. 鈥淚鈥檒l bring you each a pillow. You won鈥檛 need anything else.鈥
鈥淏ut we can鈥檛 sleep on sacks...鈥 That had to be Tommy.
鈥淥f course you can,鈥 replied our landlady. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e called palliasses, and they鈥檙e very comfortable. You鈥檒l see.鈥
But we didn鈥檛 see, even though I鈥檓 sure our eyes were open all night. For none of us slept a wink.
Boys, straw-filled palliasses and a highly polished lino floor simply do not make good sleeping partners.
The hessian irritated our skin. The sharp stalks of straw punctured us constantly. Every time we turned, bunching the mounds of straw with our hands as we tried to get comfortable, we slid on the slippery floor, invariably bumping into someone else.
We moaned, we groaned and we yelled at each other to 鈥淕e鈥檙off!鈥
Then, in the deep of night, just as we thought we might fall asleep from the sheer exhaustion of remaining awake, I remember we got up one after another from our straw beds to investigate a strange clattering sound outside.
Our window directly overlooked the village road, and we were mystified to see a horse and cart being driven slowly by.
Every few yards the elderly driver climbed down from his seat behind the horse and collected what appeared to be a large metal bin from the back. Then he would disappear into the back gardens of neighbouring houses.
鈥淲hatever is he doing?鈥 we asked of each other as we watched the process repeated at each stop.
Then someone pointed out: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a funny cart. It looks like a big metal tank on the back.鈥
And we realised that the driver was apparently filling the tank from the bin he carried out from every back yard.
Dawn couldn鈥檛 come quickly enough - and it seemed like an age coming. I remember nothing of that early morning, except that one of us (Tommy?)thought to ask our landmlady what the carter was doing in the middle of the night.
She chose to brush the question aside with something like: 鈥淥h, you mustn鈥檛 worry about things like that. You鈥檒l be late for school.鈥
We must have had an otherwise uneventful breakfast because we were at school without wasting time. That may have been down to the novelty of new surroundings. It may also have been down to our attempts to get an answer to the problem of the horse and cart in the middle of the night.
Until a fellow pupil said with a laugh: 鈥淚 saw it too. They told me it鈥檚 known as the honey wagon. The old man has the job of emptying all the lavatory bins in the village.鈥
I was horrified. We had all discovered that the only lavatory Garden Gate boasted appeared to be that sentry box shed in the garden (we didn鈥榯 use the name 鈥渢oilet鈥 then, and 鈥渓oo鈥 hadn鈥檛 been invented).
We did wonder then how we were supposed to flush it, but in the rush to get to school put it out of our minds.
Later we learnt that most of the village kids looked down on us evacuees. They had decided we had escaped from what they thought of as the London slums.
As we tried to tell them: 鈥淎t least we have flushing lavvies.鈥
We also learnt soon that Tommy, however concerned he may have been about the lack of mains plumbing, also had a desperate need to complain about the overall unsuitability of our new lodgings.
He proceeded to make his complaints known to everyone within earshot - from Mr Wynne Jones downwards.
In general terms the three of us agreed with him, though not with his enthusiastic extremism, as we might have described it if we knew the words.
I felt that we ought to give our elderly foster-mother a little more time to get used to us - and we to her - but I didn鈥檛 give voice to my reservations.
And neither did Dennis nor Freddy, if they had any. All I remember was a number of side glances at the four of us and a great deal of whispered discussion between the head, our class teacher and the billeting officer who had magically appeared just after our first morning assembly
The outcome was that we returned to Garden Gate only to collect our few personal possessions. We didn鈥檛 see our elderly landlady - or indeed our four bars of chocolate, in spite of Tommy鈥檚 frequently and loudly expressed claim that they had been 鈥減inched.鈥
Now we learnt that we were to be split up into two pairs. Two of us would go to a farm at the centre of the village, and two to another farm a mile or so away at its perimeter, overlooking the 鈥渇ens,鈥 whatever they were.
The pairings were sorted without consultation with us. The heavenly twins, Dennis and Freddy, would be kept together as always and were packed off post haste to the great and grand Dorringtons鈥 Farm at the edge of the village.
I was stuck with Tommy - and he with me - at the Priors鈥 pig and dairy farm within easy walking distance of the school.
I was fascinated with the setting of the farm. Although fronting the village high street, it overlooked open countryside at the rear. Opposite and within sight of its front gate were the village鈥檚 two windmills, just a few hundred yards apart and sited well back from that main road behind houses.
One, it is true, was little more than a ruin, and had not been in use for many years. But the other was to me the perfect representation of a windmill, with its white painted sails and revolving summit almost completely intact.
A secret visit to it left me with a fascination for windmills which has lasted to the present day.
Tommy wasn鈥檛 the least bit impressed. Indeed, we seemed to have nothing in common, and we barely spoke to each other even at mealtimes. It soon became obvious that the less he and I had to do with each other, the better we would like it.
Even though we shared a room, we went out of our way, literally, to avoid contact.
What was the problem? When the farmer鈥檚 wife, Mrs Prior, asked that, I could have said that I didn鈥檛 like him because he was seen as the class bully.
But as I had never personally suffered as a victim of his attention, I could only say: 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know. We just don鈥檛 get on.鈥
If she had asked Tommy the same question, I can only suppose he gave a similar answer - but perhaps he had a more logical reason for his dislike of me. I certainly wasn鈥檛 going to ask him.
I was more interested in the activities on the farm, and was soon feeding the chickens and helping with the pigs.
I was even proud to learn that the Priors鈥 was one of the largest pig farms in the country. And slipping on the obligatory white overall-coat, I also enjoyed helping out in the spotlessly clean farm dairy.
Taking over the handle of the revolving butter-maker for short spells, I was fascinated at the way the clouded little glass window in the side of the highly polished barrel suddenly cleared as the liquid inside turned finally to butter.
But most of all I enjoyed walking across to the adjoining 4-acre field and bringing the cows in for milking in the evening.
I had been shown how to stand by a gate, cup my hands and call out 鈥淲up, wup, wup!鈥
It gave me a wonderful feeling of achievement to watch as the small herd of a dozen or so cows suddenly appeared over the brow of the hill and ambled towards me, halting until I could open the gate. And I looked forward to learning how to milk the cows as soon as possible.
Tommy, for his part, preferred to get away from the Priors鈥 as often as possible. He seemed not to be interested in the animals or in the farm equipment, and after our evening meal - a high tea we shared with the farmer and his wife immediately we returned from school - he frequently disappeared until the early dusk.
After only a few days I realised he was regularly walking over to join Freddy and Dennis at the Dorrington鈥檚, on the Chatteris road. Although I had been there to visit Freddy just after he moved in with Dennis, I was never asked over with Tommy.
I was puzzled, but not particularly concerned. Eventually, at school I took the opportunity to tackle Freddy on this point.
鈥淭ommy doesn鈥檛 want you over with us,鈥 was all he would say. I mentally shrugged and dismissed the subject. I was a little upset that Freddy, and apparently Dennis as well, hadn鈥檛 stood up for me.
But overall I was quite happy spending the evening in the farm dairy or talking to the pigs.
The day the 麻豆社 and the film crew arrived changed all that.
It had been a normal school morning. Tommy had already left by the time I鈥檇 brought the cows in and had my breakfast, and as usual I made my own way to school, arriving just in time for morning assembly.
After prayers and the morning hymn the deputy head made a couple of routine announcements, paused for silence and then said:
鈥淭oday we have some special visitors. These gentlemen...鈥
He gestured towards a group of people standing in a group near the stage.
鈥淭hese gentlemen are from the 麻豆社. They are here to make some recordings. So we鈥檙e going to extend assembly for a little while this morning, and sing for them.鈥
The visitors bustled about for the next few minutes setting up their equipment and running seemingly miles of cable while we were given a short lecture, which if I remember correctly contained phrases like 鈥渘o shuffling, definitely no coughing鈥 and 鈥渟ing your hearts out.鈥
What we sang, to a piano played on stage by a teacher, Mr Jeans, I do not recall. But the 麻豆社 man seemed happy with the results, and told us after a few moments that everything was:
鈥...OK - even the sound level test at the beginning.鈥 And that would have been the high spot of the day, but for the unexpected announcement that followed.
Cutting through the babble of a hundred kids by suddenly calling again for silence, the deputy head revealed that the sound technicians had another call to make before they left Warboys.
鈥淭hey have to find a farm at the edge of the village,鈥 he said, 鈥淏ut they don鈥檛 know how to get there.
鈥淒oes anyone here today know where the Dorringtons鈥 farm is situated?鈥
For a moment I sat in silence. But as soon as the question sank in I threw up my hand.
鈥淚 know where it is, sir,鈥 I said. 鈥淚鈥檝e been there.鈥
The teacher had a whispered conversation with the 麻豆社 technician. He turned to me and said:
鈥淩ight then. You鈥檇 better go with them. Be off and get your coat.鈥
I couldn鈥檛 have moved more quickly if I鈥檇 known what was in store. As it was, I was waiting beside the 麻豆社 crew鈥檚 car before them. Within seconds we were on our way, with me seated beside the driver, giving my directions.
Continued in Part 2 of 鈥淲e鈥檙e at War, Boys,鈥
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