The Home Guard and The Yanks
In the meantime our village Home Guard was formed. Practically every able-bodied male who wasn't already in the Forces turned up to try and do their bit. I often think what a motley collection we must have looked, minus uniforms or weapons. It was all deadly serious at the time however. After enrolling we donned our arm badges, were split up into platoons, and put under the tender care of the new with previous experiences in the Forces.
The first night of duty came, and six of us with a Lance-Corporal in charge, and boasting three twelve-bore shotguns between us, went on anti-parachute patrol. It was the total ignorance of what to expect that kept us on our toes. We had visions of hundreds of parachutists descending from the skies, with us standing there blasting upwards hoping to score a bullseye on some enemy's backside before he landed.
As the weeks went by we started getting better organised. One Sunday morning as we assembled, we saw stacks of rifles awaiting us. Our jubilation was short-lived as we found that the Canadian Ross Rifles were minus ammunition! This turned up eventually, and after a bit of target practice we felt we were getting somewhere at last, especially as we were all kitted out with uniforms. Then machine-guns and grenades arrived, and we were busy enough learning how to use them.
We took turns in twos to be on duty at our Headquarters, the Village Hall. I didn't particularly care for this as it was mid-winter and bitterly cold. We packed up about five a.m., and I would hurry home to get an hour's sleep in a warm bed before setting off for work. Later on I progressed to despatch rider, having the necessary motor bike. We had several false alarms, but only one real emergency turnout as far as I can remember, and this concerned the American planes. We were surrounded with Yank airfields, and got used to seeing the hundreds of bombers circling round prior to getting into formation for the daylight raids on Germany. We were, alas, also used to seeing them come home shot up and crippled, with bent and broken props, pieces shot off here and there, and no doubt carrying many dead and wounded.
This particular evening just as it was getting dark, Vera and I stood outside watching the planes circling round with all their navigation lights on, stacking and awaiting their turn to land. Suddenly bursts of cannon fire broke out, and in a matter of minutes planes began to burst into flames and come crashing down to hit the ground with explosive force. The flames lit up the night sky like daylight. German fighters had followed the planes in. They were sitting targets with all their lights on.
An emergency call-out for the Home Guard came quickly, and we all made a dash for Headquarters. Little could be done however. We were detailed off to the nearest crash in case we could do anything, but there was nothing left except a blazing inferno with the poor souls inside long dead. We searched around for any possible survivors who might have baled out, but the planes had been much too low for any hope of using parachutes. We straggled back to base, and it was a dejected and sorrowful crowd who assembled prior to returning to our homes.
It was almost like little America in our area; the roads were full of American lorries, tankers and jeeps, night as well as day. A large maltings near us was used as the main store for the adjacent airfields. I often think as I walk past how, in those days, the forecourt was full of white and coloured Yanks gathered in knots playing crap, talking and singing to the dice, with plenty of noise and laughing. They were a good lot of lads, and did all they could to help the civilian population - especially so at Christmas, when presents were distributed to practically all the village children. The local girls had a right royal time and many of them married later to go to the States with their husbands and children.
The local lads, at least the few of them not in the Forces, had a thin time I'm afraid. The Yank boys, with their high wages and a never-failing supply of 'goodies' had it mostly their own way. Who could blame them anyway, thousands of miles from home. Especially so for the flying personnel, amongst whom the survival rate must have been very low indeed, poor boys. In later years my wife and I visited the huge USAAF cemetery at Cambridge, and looking at the thousands of headstones made one realise the enormity of the casualties.
Evidence of the airfields still remains, and probably always will. Of the ones near us, one is used as a private flying club, one by a parachute club, and another as a crop-spraying base. Most of the runways have gone, broken up and the concrete used for road-making. Here and there a derelict building still stands, covered in ivy. To us who can remember that far back, they will always bring back memories of the days when the East Anglian sky was full of Flying Fortresses and Liberators roaring off on their bombing missions.
The Home Guard still carried on, now quite a shipshape lot, but as always there were one or two with the never-failing gift of doing the wrong things and we had many a laugh. I remember turning up one night for my spell of night duty to join my mate, who had been there some time. He told me he had company. Some chap he didn't know had rolled up and been invited in for a cuppa. Said Billy "He was such a nice chap, really interested in the home Guard. He asked me how many men were in the unit, where did the officer live, where was our ammo store, and what weapons we had". The penny had dropped by now, and I said "and I suppose you told him everything?" "Oh yes", he rejoined, "we had a rare old yarn." I ran up to the officer's home and told him what had happened. He rang up the adjoining units and told them to be on their guard as there was an 'enemy agent' on the prowl.
We guessed, of course, that it was some sort of exercise. He came back to Headquarters with me, gave my mate a right old rollicking, and called out some of the handy personnel to search the area. Needless to say, nothing was found. The next Sunday we were paraded in front of the area officer, who left us in no doubt whatever what he thought of our 'security'.
We had a good laugh one Sunday morning when we were exercising on the heath. The object was range-finding, and we had to estimate the distance from where we stood to an electricity pylon in the distance. When we had all had a go, the NCO detailed one of the lads to pace out the distance to find out who was the nearest. Off he went, while we were busy doing something else. He duly arrived back, and in answer to the NCO's question said "Four hundred yards there and five hundred back". I guess he lost count, and we all had a laugh, that is all except the NCO who told the lad in real NCO language to go back to school and bloody well learn how to count again.
The first night of duty came, and six of us with a Lance-Corporal in charge, and boasting three twelve-bore shotguns between us, went on anti-parachute patrol. It was the total ignorance of what to expect that kept us on our toes. We had visions of hundreds of parachutists descending from the skies, with us standing there blasting upwards hoping to score a bullseye on some enemy's backside before he landed.
As the weeks went by we started getting better organised. One Sunday morning as we assembled, we saw stacks of rifles awaiting us. Our jubilation was short-lived as we found that the Canadian Ross Rifles were minus ammunition! This turned up eventually, and after a bit of target practice we felt we were getting somewhere at last, especially as we were all kitted out with uniforms. Then machine-guns and grenades arrived, and we were busy enough learning how to use them.
We took turns in twos to be on duty at our Headquarters, the Village Hall. I didn't particularly care for this as it was mid-winter and bitterly cold. We packed up about five a.m., and I would hurry home to get an hour's sleep in a warm bed before setting off for work. Later on I progressed to despatch rider, having the necessary motor bike. We had several false alarms, but only one real emergency turnout as far as I can remember, and this concerned the American planes. We were surrounded with Yank airfields, and got used to seeing the hundreds of bombers circling round prior to getting into formation for the daylight raids on Germany. We were, alas, also used to seeing them come home shot up and crippled, with bent and broken props, pieces shot off here and there, and no doubt carrying many dead and wounded.
This particular evening just as it was getting dark, Vera and I stood outside watching the planes circling round with all their navigation lights on, stacking and awaiting their turn to land. Suddenly bursts of cannon fire broke out, and in a matter of minutes planes began to burst into flames and come crashing down to hit the ground with explosive force. The flames lit up the night sky like daylight. German fighters had followed the planes in. They were sitting targets with all their lights on.
An emergency call-out for the Home Guard came quickly, and we all made a dash for Headquarters. Little could be done however. We were detailed off to the nearest crash in case we could do anything, but there was nothing left except a blazing inferno with the poor souls inside long dead. We searched around for any possible survivors who might have baled out, but the planes had been much too low for any hope of using parachutes. We straggled back to base, and it was a dejected and sorrowful crowd who assembled prior to returning to our homes.
It was almost like little America in our area; the roads were full of American lorries, tankers and jeeps, night as well as day. A large maltings near us was used as the main store for the adjacent airfields. I often think as I walk past how, in those days, the forecourt was full of white and coloured Yanks gathered in knots playing crap, talking and singing to the dice, with plenty of noise and laughing. They were a good lot of lads, and did all they could to help the civilian population - especially so at Christmas, when presents were distributed to practically all the village children. The local girls had a right royal time and many of them married later to go to the States with their husbands and children.
The local lads, at least the few of them not in the Forces, had a thin time I'm afraid. The Yank boys, with their high wages and a never-failing supply of 'goodies' had it mostly their own way. Who could blame them anyway, thousands of miles from home. Especially so for the flying personnel, amongst whom the survival rate must have been very low indeed, poor boys. In later years my wife and I visited the huge USAAF cemetery at Cambridge, and looking at the thousands of headstones made one realise the enormity of the casualties.
Evidence of the airfields still remains, and probably always will. Of the ones near us, one is used as a private flying club, one by a parachute club, and another as a crop-spraying base. Most of the runways have gone, broken up and the concrete used for road-making. Here and there a derelict building still stands, covered in ivy. To us who can remember that far back, they will always bring back memories of the days when the East Anglian sky was full of Flying Fortresses and Liberators roaring off on their bombing missions.
The Home Guard still carried on, now quite a shipshape lot, but as always there were one or two with the never-failing gift of doing the wrong things and we had many a laugh. I remember turning up one night for my spell of night duty to join my mate, who had been there some time. He told me he had company. Some chap he didn't know had rolled up and been invited in for a cuppa. Said Billy "He was such a nice chap, really interested in the home Guard. He asked me how many men were in the unit, where did the officer live, where was our ammo store, and what weapons we had". The penny had dropped by now, and I said "and I suppose you told him everything?" "Oh yes", he rejoined, "we had a rare old yarn." I ran up to the officer's home and told him what had happened. He rang up the adjoining units and told them to be on their guard as there was an 'enemy agent' on the prowl.
We guessed, of course, that it was some sort of exercise. He came back to Headquarters with me, gave my mate a right old rollicking, and called out some of the handy personnel to search the area. Needless to say, nothing was found. The next Sunday we were paraded in front of the area officer, who left us in no doubt whatever what he thought of our 'security'.
We had a good laugh one Sunday morning when we were exercising on the heath. The object was range-finding, and we had to estimate the distance from where we stood to an electricity pylon in the distance. When we had all had a go, the NCO detailed one of the lads to pace out the distance to find out who was the nearest. Off he went, while we were busy doing something else. He duly arrived back, and in answer to the NCO's question said "Four hundred yards there and five hundred back". I guess he lost count, and we all had a laugh, that is all except the NCO who told the lad in real NCO language to go back to school and bloody well learn how to count again.
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