Vocal Voices

This is the article I have submitted to the The Kidderminster Shuttle, the local newspaper of the town in which I was born.
Whether they will print it I don't know. Hope it doesn't bore you.
Life in Kidderminster during World War II
Extracts from Aggers autobiography

War broke out in September 1939 when German forces invaded Poland but nothing much happened in England during the rest of that year and it became known then as ‘the phoney war’. At that time I was working in the Design Office of Woodward Grosvenor. (Carpet maufacturers))

When 1940 came we realised that this was no ‘phoney war’ – it was for real and could last for quite a time. By the middle of the year the realities of war were with us. Food rationing had begun, Winston Churchill was in charge and our armed forces had been evacuated from Dunkirk. The carpet factories in Kidderminster were switching to the production of war equipment and it was inevitable that carpet manufacture would soon cease altogether. I then moved to Bradley & Turton Ltd ( Engineers)as a trainee draughtsman, commencing work in the Print Room, and was kept busy making blueprints. Extra work was necessary because Shorts, the aircraft manufacturers of Belfast, moved their Design Office to Green Street, Kidderminster, as they thought it would be less likely to receive attention from German bombers than their home town. They set up office in the newly built office block of Victoria Carpets but, as they had no printing machine, they brought all their printing requirements to us, after stressing the importance of absolute security.

These were, in the words of a later U.S. President, “the dark days and darker nights when England stood alone and most men, save Englishmen, despaired of England’s life”We were not conscious of this at the time – life seemed to go along much as before. We had air raid warnings, of course, but they were mostly false alarms. At night we could hear the German bombers flying over with their characteristic low-pitched throbbing sound, and could see the searchlights fanning the darkness trying to locate them. Sometime we could hear bombs exploding in the distance or the cracking sound of anti-aircraft guns.

At Bradley & Turtons we were ready to receive any German parachutists. (The warning that an invasion had started was to be the ringing of the church bells, which were otherwise silent throughout the war years). Notices were posted around the factory advising workers, in the event of an invasion, to arm themselves with ‘a twelve inch length of ¾ inch hydraulic piping’. An air raid shelter was dug out at the top of the 'Round Hill' adjoining the factory. Ron Hill, the man in charge of the Cost Office was sent on a plane-spotters course and when the sirens sounded he positioned himself on top of the hill armed with a pair of binoculars with which to scan the skies looking for enemy planes. If he spotted one, he gave a hand signal to someone standing on the footpath outside the lower factory gates in Park Lane. That person, in turn, had to pass on the signal to the timekeeper waiting outside the time office opposite Brinton Park gates, who who would run to his phone and ring up Nobby Clark, the Chief Draughtsman, who would then press the button to sound the signal for the workers to leave their work and take shelter. With hindsight, not a very clever arrangement.

Outside working hours, we all became involved in the war effort in various ways. The Chief Draughtsman, Horace Pessoll was an officer in the local division of the Local Defence Volunteers (VLC) soon to be renamed the Home Guard. They regularly did night-duties guarding the Elan Valley aqueduct where it crossed the Severn just above Bewdley. Another colleague, Harold Taylor, was an Air Raid Warden.
An ARP Warden had to patrol the streets at night to make sure that all house windows were properly blacked out. During a raid he would report any incidents to the Civil Defence Control Centre, which would then organise the various emergency services. His equipment included a whistle to warn of a gas attack and a stirrup pump with which to fight fires should incendiary bombs be used. I did my bit helping to man the Civil Defence Control Centre. My work there involved keeping records of the Air Raid Wardens on duty in various parts of the town – they phoned in when they started their shift or when there were any incidents to report. I worked on a rota system one night a week but I was also on a standby rota for duties whenever the air raid sirens sounded during the night.

England managed to survive the most traumatic episode in its long history. 1940 passed and England had survived the heavy air raids on London and had won the Battle of Britain. Our ‘island fortress’ was still intact, though badly battered. 1941 was well under-way and the onslaught of the German fighting machine continued unabated. In April came the devastating bombardment of Coventry – we could hear the sounds of the explosions and see flashes lighting up the horizon. We knew someone was getting it pretty badly. Heavy air raids continued on London and the House of Commons was destroyed.
For people living in Kidderminster, however, life continued almost unchanged. Shopping was a problem, of course. The German blockade of our shipping meant that food supplies, even those items not rationed, were in short supply. (Children born in 1940 had to wait until they were five or six years old before they even saw a banana.) Rationing ensured that we all had a balanced diet, and meat intake could often be supplemented by the occasional rabbit or chicken bought on the ‘black market‘. Every Sunday morning, after church, I would cycle to a farm near Hart;ebury and return with a dozen ‘black market’ eggs in my saddlebag. Shopping routines continued more or less as before but there was more queuing. Whenever we saw a queue in the town we would tag on to the end of it, not even knowing what we were queuing for! Although meat was rationed, offal was not and this was often the reward for the wait. Everyone served received the same small quantity.
As the war dragged on, so the range of items subject to rationing grew. The German blockade continued but huge shipping convoys from America, crossing the Atlantic, heavily protected, ensured that we did not starve. A few new items were added to our diets, for example dried eggs. These were not too bad for use in baking but fried for breakfast they resembled edible soft leather. We also had, from the USA, large tins of chopped pork. These contained a core of consolidated chopped meat with a thick outer layer of dripping. Mother used to carefully scrape off all this fat and use it for making pastry, which she then filled with the meat to make little pork pies shaped like sausage rolls. They were delicious.
Walking out after dark did not worry us at all, in spite of the blackout. No street lamps or shop windows were lit, and if a hand torch was used it had to be dimmed with a double thickness of greaseproof paper. Where there were trees on the pavement, whitewash was painted on the trunks so that you would not bump into them. During that period one never heard of anyone being attacked or robbed.
As the war proceeded and more and more men were conscripted for national service, farmers had problems in carrying out their vital job of providing the nation’s food requirements, and desperately needed extra hands. To cater for this requirement, the Voluntary Land Corp (VLC) was brought into being. In Kidderminster it was organised by Sid Edwards, a teacher at Harry Cheshire School, where my sister Thelma taught. The idea was that civilians formed working parties to help out on farms during the evenings and at weekends. Farmers paid for the work done but the money was donated to worthy causes, of which there were many during the war. My sister persuaded me to join and I found the work so much fun that I had no problem in getting my work mates, Harold Taylor and Gerald Clements, to become members too. In the evenings we would go to near-by farms and travel by car or sometimes on a trailer drawn by the farmer’s tractor. On Sundays a lorry-load of us would go further, singing the good old wartime songs as we went along, with lunch sandwiches stuffed in our pockets. Those were happy days!
Duties on the farms were varied. All too often it was beet singling – shuffling along rows of young sugar beet plants and deftly (sometimes!) removing enough of them to leave single specimens suitably spaced out. This was the most boring task imaginable. Other jobs were much preferred, such as fruit picking, although this work was inclined to stain one's lips! At harvest time the work became heavier. In the cornfields the crop was bound into bundles by the reaping machine and we had to arrange them into upright groups, called stooks, so that they could dry out prior to the threshing process. This was not too difficult a task, but the action of fusing the heads of two bundles firmly together in an inverted V shape produced a multitude of facial abrasions and scratches. Loading bales of hay on to the top of a wagon was certainly tiring work.

At that time we only had one week’s annual holiday – the week containing August Bank Holiday, then the first Monday in August. Real holidays were hardly possible during the war years. All coastal areas were out of bounds to civilians anyway. When the VLC organised an agricultural holiday camp for its members, we three lads jumped at the chance. It was based at Honeybourne in the Vale of Evesham. We slept in bell tents and were taken out every day to work on farms. This may not sound much of a holiday but it was most enjoyable. The atmosphere was wonderful.
Due to the camp’s position, there was plenty of fruit picking, also potato picking and thistle slashing. One day when it rained we were ferried to a local canning and jam factory. My task here was putting plums into cans and placing them on a conveyor belt, which went through the machine that heated them and soldered on the tops. Only sound fruit were put into the cans. Any that was damaged or rotten went into skips that ended up in the jam-making department! I also saw barrels of strawberry seeds that were added to the vats of boiled up fruit so that it could be labelled as strawberry jam. Still, we used to justify many things in those days with the expression ‘There is a war on’.

Last thing at night we would queue up for a mug of cocoa and a couple of ship’s biscuits. Standing around in groups, sipping our night drink and dunking our rock-hard biscuits, we talked over the events of the day and discussed the war news we had read about in the papers. These were magical moments that can never be erased from my memory. We enjoyed the experience so much that we signed up for next year’s camp. This was based at Inkberrow and was very similar to the previous year

By 1942 the USA had joined the conflict and their armed forces began to arrive ‘over here’. That was when the invasion of our town began. True, there had already been an influx of strangers to the town, but life had continued much as before. When the American soldiers arrived here we certainly noticed a change then. They had a camp nearby and every Saturday evening they flooded into town in droves. Our ballroom dances were never the same again. The amount of dance floor available for normal dancing was seriously reduced as more and more Yanks found girls willing to engage in Jitterbugging. To do this meant that a girl had to be prepared to be thrown about on the dance floor, often displaying her knickers to all and sundry. We were not amused. Worse still was the fact that some girls actually used to go out with these men, who were certainly better dressed than our soldiers, who appeared to be dressed in sackcloth by comparison. They also had more money to spend. Then, in addition to the inevitable chewing gum, they were able to produce those coveted nylons. The best our serving lads could produce for their girlfriends was the occasional piece of parachute silk that could be made up into either a blouse or a pair of French knickers. Several local girls did find real romance with the Yanks and when the war ended these ‘GI brides’ were shipped to the States, some to be bitterly disappointed and some to be well pleased.

Our drawing boards at work were by sash windows looking out onto the road. Through these windows we watched the rest of the world go by; - the endless convoys of British Army vehicles; an occasional large transporter, known as a ‘Queen Mary’, carrying aircraft wings or a fuselage to or from the nearby RAF storage depot ; the American army convoys with their immaculately-dressed officers in their Jeeps and, a rare sight for us, black men! We hadn’t seen any before, except when Sanders of the River came to the local cinema.
The Yanks often waved to us and shouted things like ‘Is this the way to ‘War-sester?’ (Worcester). They even threw packets of chewing gum at us sometimes, if our windows were open.

My recollections of the war years will be dramatically different from those who were in the ‘sharp end’ of the conflict. (I was unable to join the armed forces because I was in a Reserved Occupation ). Of course, at the time we all took a profound interest in the traumatic events that were taking place and eagerly read the papers and listened to the radio news bulletins every evening. The Sunday night Nine o’clock News, by the way, always started with the playing of the National Anthems of the Allies and of those countries that had been overrun by the Germans. As the war progressed, the number of tunes grew, until it was turned half past nine before the reading of the news commenced. We were, of course, only told news that the 'powers that be' decided we should hear but we could often read between the lines. If we had our fears we didn’t talk about them.

For anyone who has not experienced six years of total war it will be hard to imagine the relief' and joy we experienced when it was all over. 1945 brought victory in Europe (VE) and, a few months later, victory in Japan (VJ). There were celebrations everywhere; parties and dancing in almost every street. Huge bonfires were built in side streets and everyone went mad, singing and dancing round the fires through the night. It was great to be able to tear down the blackout materials from our windows and see them consumed by flames.

With peace came a relaxation of the censorship that had controlled the information we were allowed to receive, and the full horror of the loss of life and the sufferings of people in so many countries became known. It made us realise just how fortunate we had been here in this sleepy little town in the middle of England. True, we had had a few bombs dropped in the area – I think the count was just over thirty – but I cannot recall any serious casualties or deaths. An unexploded one was unearthed here many years later when the river bridge in Worcester Road was widened for the new dual carriageway.

Things began to change quite soon. The Yanks said goodbye, taking back to America enough memories to enable Hollywood to go on producing war films for the next fifty years, explaining how the Yanks had once again won a world war. They also left us more space in our dance halls for real dancing! The Voluntary Land Corp was no longer required and was disbanded. The Labour Party won the General Election in no uncertain fashion.

But Bradley & Turtons carried on just the same as ever.

Thank you Aggers, I enjoyed reading that

Oh Aggers! That had me absolutely fascinated! You have a remarkable memory and a great 'eye' for detail I would be very surprised if they did not publish it

Thank you, I really enjoyed reading this. I really liked it being from your perspective of those at home, rather than the front line. Often the home story gets missed

Aggers..if this gets published I will buy 2.copies.

One for my dad and the other for me.

xx

I've heard from the editor of the Kidderminster Shuttle and he says that at the moment he is looking for information about how WW1 had affected the town. When I had seen his message in the local rag I had presumed WW! was a misprint and that he meant WW2, as there can't be anyone alive now who can remember WW!. Anyway, he says he will keep my article for possible use in the future.

My other submission was to a nearby rural monthly magazine, and is about a forgotten WW2 army on the home front - The Voluntary Land Corps, where civillian helped local farmers, short-handed because of millitary call-ups, to produce much-needed food crops. The editor of that publication says he will use my write-up next month.

That's good about next month's issue.

That's good - and you're right about WWI, there can hardly be anyone left alive who is old enough to remember it!

Very interesting read Aggers.
I have taken this chapter out of the book I wrote concerning the war years.

WAR AND EVACUATION…

I never got to know my family of two older brothers and an elder sister until I was let out of the home on a weekly basis from the age of six. I was finally sent home in 1937 in time for the Jubilee celebrations.
My family had moved back to London in 1932 from where they originated from to 218 Neate Street in Camberwell, South East London.
I recall having a flag put in my hand to wave about and the good old "knees up" as the Londoners called it. I began school at Coburg Road with one eye still covered up to try and make the bad one work. I had to wear a patch over one eye ever since I started to crawl because of the eye trouble that the illness left me with.
It had made me very unhappy because of the names that the children called me, such as Popeye or Nelson and it made me very aggressive in my character. I silently vowed that I would never hurt anyone like that when I grew up.
As I got settled in with the family I soon found out that my mother and father were always at each other’s throats. We never had one day go past without a row of some sort. I got used to the arguing and pot throwing over the years.
Funnily enough if anyone interfered with them and perhaps would ask them to calm down my mother would tell them to “Sod off ! When I want any help from you I will ask. Meanwhile this is between me and my husband.”

When things were alright between them and money was not so tight they used to take me to New Cross Dog Track on the Saturday night.
Our journey would take us along The Old Kent Road. We would stop at the Lord Nelson first where they would stop to wet their whistles as they told me but being naïve I could never fathom out where their whistles were. I had never seen them use one.
My mother would be dressed in a large picture hat with a dress that had beaded petals falling from the waist over a full skirt and Dad would be dressed up in his “whistle and flute” as he called his best suit.
As we moved further on down The Old Kent Road we would call in at the Thomas a Beckett public house.
This was where all the famous boxers trained.
I was very often patted on the head by them as I sat on the step waiting for my parents to come out.
I hated these trips to the dog track. I would much rather have been at home picking out tunes on the piano which incidentally I learnt to play quite well over the years.

During the summer of 1939 I was hearing talk of a nasty man called Adolf Hitler. It was snatches of conversation that I heard when the grown-ups were talking together and I had been told to go and play in the passage ( a long narrow hallway in the house ).
Children were being sent away from their parents to safety areas, whatever they were.
It seemed very strange to me that as soon as I got to know someone as a friend they were sent off to the country. Houses were being issued with funny corrugated shapes that were called Anderson air-raid shelters that had to be put in a hole that was dug out in the back garden, if you had one.
Gasmasks were issued and everyone had an identity card.
We had practised at school with our gasmask’s for ten minutes every day and were told if the air-raid siren went off to get under our desks.

This poem tells of the times we had to practise putting the masks on………………….


Everyone had an identity card and a gas mask too
Nasty horrible things to wear, stuck to you like glue.
It was a daily ritual to practice wearing that gas mask
None of us liked doing it because it really was a task
Teacher would then come round to see if it fitted snug
Pulling at the head strap she would give it quite a tug.
I wouldn't mind but it was supposed to keep us alive,
But how if we had to wear it long would we all survive?
I was glad when we finally stopped that daily routine
But we still had to carry it no matter where we'd been.
We were never parted from it even when visiting the loo
But as soon as the war ended they disappeared from view


copyright---Maisie Walker 2005--- all copyrights reserved.

September 3rd 1939 was a lovely sunny Sunday morning and to me there seemed to be a hush over everything. At 11am it came over the relay wireless that Mr Chamberlain had said we were now in a state of war with Germany. I can still hear my mothers anguished voice saying " Oh sweet mother of mercy! My boys, my boys."
The hush from outside suddenly became a cacophony of voices. All the neighbours gathered on their doorsteps talking about what would happen if old Hitler got to England. I felt terrified in case I was sent back to the Sisters of Mercy home.
I was relieved when my mother said that Hitler or no bleeding Hitler she was still going hop-picking the next day and taking her kids with her.

It was a well known thing for Londoners to go for about three weeks hop-picking every year. They classed it as a working holiday that got them away from the London smog and they could see a bit of green countryside.
It was during the third week that we were there when a German plane got through our defences ( such as they were).
He spotted us working and decided to use us as target practise. We all dived into the hop-vines for cover and Thank God there were no casualties because one of our fighters came along and a terrific dog fight was going on above us when the Spitfire shot the Jerry down.
We were all excited when we saw him bail out of his plane because it was on fire and came floating down in to the adjoining field.
Everyone left what they were doing and ran to the next field armed with whatever they could find to clobber the pilot with. He was still extricating himself out of his parachute so he had no chance to run anywhere.

It was a phoney war up until the June 1940. Everything was still going on as usual apart from railings and various other things like old pots and pans being given up for the war effort. We still had to take our gasmask’s every where we went but up to that time it was like the sword of Damocles waiting to strike. Posters were put up saying "Careless talk cost lives". There was the blackout to contend with and things were beginning to get in short supply.

My father came home from the docks one day with a beautiful blue grey kitten that had been abandoned by its mother.
My mother took to that kitten and it became her shadow.
She would share her rations with Blue as she called him and when he got wounded by shrapnel she would nurse him back to health.
She would not have it put to sleep like many pets in the London area were because of the bombing raids. This was in case the animal ran off in fear and most probably getting killed or wounded in a gruesome way.
It must have been a terrible decision to make for all who had and loved their pets.

It was after Dunkirk when the bombing started in earnest and it got steadily worse as the days turned into months. It was a nightly ritual to get the flask of tea, blankets, candle and sandwiches ready to take down the Anderson shelter which incidentally was always swimming in six inches of water.
We could tell by the sound of the engines of the planes whether they were friend or foe. Blue always gave us warning at least 10 minutes before the siren went by clawing at the door or what was left of it. We knew that we had time to grab everything to make our way down the shelter. It was a living nightmare to go through the continual bombing night after night. My mother was continually praying with her rosary in her hands. When we emerged each morning still alive it was a miracle. It was better still if we could have a cup of tea and a wash to take the grime out of our eyes from continual dust and smoke of the fires and buildings that had collapsed.

One night stands out in my memory so vividly that I can still hear the screaming bombs and the Anderson rattling as the bombs reigned down on us. It was the night that hundreds of German bombers droned over dropping bombs to set all the docks afire. To say it was horrific would be putting it mildly. The scene that met us the next morning when we finally saw the light of day was horrendous. We felt as though we were standing in the middle of Hell. Fires were raging all round us and I could see bodies smouldering among the rubble of houses. The smell was putrid and we could only cope by putting something round our faces to try and filter the smoke and smell of burning flesh away.

The top part of our house had been completely demolished and yet my mothers beautiful ebony piano was still intact under the blankets that she had covered over it.
Even at the tender age of 10 years I wondered WHY the God that my mother was always praying to had taken our neighbours lives but left a piano.?
Believe it or not, to have a piano in those days was a status symbol.
Similar to a Rolls Royce car in the drive today.
That night has been etched in my mind ever since. If it had not been for our heroic R.A.F we would not be here today to tell the tale.

We spent most of our time down the shelter after that. There was a public house across the road from us named the Hop-pole and the piano found shelter down in the cellar until we found a safe place for it. It was well used by any who were partaking of the dregs from the beer barrels when raids were on. Especially singing songs relating to what they would do to Hitler.

Christmas Day 1940 was a stark time but it was quiet from the bombs for once and we were living in the shelter by his time because our house had gone.
I wrote the following poem about that particular Christmas Day and it depicts the fierce community spirit that everyone felt at that time.

A CHRISTMAS DAY MEMORY.

I sit and ponder about a certain Christmas Day many years ago
I remember very plainly of having no home and no place to go.
The year was nineteen forty in the middle of the London Blitz
Jerry pounding us with bombs, he tried hard to break the Brits

We finished up in our air-raid shelter to keep us from the cold
Listening to the bombs dropping down as hell began to unfold.
Christmas was fast approaching but no presents were in sight
It was dangerous for Santa to travel in the war stricken night.

At least that was what I was told by my fourteen-year-old brother!
No stocking put up for a Christmas, just comforting each other.
Christmas Day dawned and the firemen were so tired and weary
This did not deter them, they battled on as they remained cheery.

Along came a water cart at last to get water for a cup of Rosie Lee
How would the British survive without their cup of cheering tea?
We managed to have a quick wash to greet that Christmas morning
In case we were bombed again and had to heed the air-raid warning.

But it remained quiet, a deathly hush that seemed to envelop us all
A Christmas Day that remained in my memory that I can well recall.
It was like sitting on the edge of a volcano just waiting for it to erupt
Suddenly the sound of voices was heard the silence it did interrupt.

A radio was playing and the choristers were singing a rousing song
Many joined in the chorus as the voices made us all feel strong.
For those who have never witnessed a moving scene such as this
I thank the Lord! It was something that I would not have missed

I have never had that feeling of awe since that fateful day long ago
A kindred spirit amid a city razed that brought forth a certain glow
Of pride and joy that existed for a short time as we all started to sing
A song called “Santa Claus is coming to town” with voices in full swing

Its well over 70 years since that awesome day, I give thanks I am still alive
I very often wonder how through all that hell we managed to survive.
I hope and pray it will never happen again to any future generations
And may everyone be thankful as they enjoy their happy celebrations.


copyright---Maisie Walker 2004-- all rights reserved.

Just after Christmas the Germans came back to give us another pounding.

My mother was by this time fed up with trying to keep what bits we had left together and we moved to number 168 further along the street that had a factory built nearby.
We started using the factory cellar to stay in during the night raids. This house too was bombed so we were once again with no home.
In the February 1941 my mother decided to go to the authorities to see if she could be evacuated with her children. My eldest brother was already in the airforce. He was called up as soon as the war started. My sister was too old at 17 to be evacuated so she stopped with my dad but my other brother who was 14 years old and my mother and myself were told to be at the school by a certain time to board the bus.

We arrived at the appointed school with our gasmasks and tickets tied to our coats. Even the mothers had a ticket pinned to them. After a nightmare journey through London in a bus during a daylight raid we got to the station.
We were then herded on to it, like cattle by a bossy woman who kept shoving us into line.
I was rather worried about this because my mother had a very short fuse and I was edgy in case she shoved the woman back.
I was relieved, apprehensive and excited when we finally pulled out of the station heading for an unknown destination.

We had been on the train for about half-an-hour when a Jerry plane spotted us and used us as target practice.
Once again we came under machine gun bullets. It was a work of art for all of us to try and get down on the floor of the train because it was packed out with evacuees plus pregnant women who were being evacuated.
With a bit of luck we were coming up to a long tunnel and the train pulled to a halt to give the Jerry time to scarper.
As we pulled out again we could see that a Spitfire had come to our rescue and let the Jerry have full blast of his machine guns which resulted in the Jerry plane spiralling down to earth taking the pilot with it. The vociferous cheer that shook the train gave vent to all our fears.

We arrived in Loughborough at the Central Station at 7-30 in the evening.
We all had to walk to the Y.W.C.A. but fortunately the moon was shining that night and it helped us to fumble our way through strange territory in the blackout.
When we got to the Y.W.C.A. we were given a potted meat sandwich that was curled up at the edges and a black cup of tea but to us with being so hungry, dirty and tired it was like a four course meal.
I can recall someone saying that he was so hungry he could eat a " horse between two bread carts". I have never forgotten the giggle that went round our tired war weary group at that remark.

Thank you May, that was a lovely read