High Explosive Bomb at Speldhurst Road

Over the Seas Two-Five-Four!
We’re marching right off,
We’re marching right off to War!
No-body knows where or when
But we’re marching right off
We’re marching right off - again!
It may be BER-LIN
To fight Hitler’s KIN
Two-fifty-four will win through
We may be gone for days and days — and then!
We’ll be marching right off for home
Marching right off for ho-me
Marching right off for home — again!

___________________________

Merry-merry-merry are we
For we are the boys of the AR-TIL-LER-Y!
Sing high — sing low where ever we go
TWO-FIVE-FOUR Battery never say NO

INTRODUCTION

The 64th Field Regiment Royal Artillery, Territorial Army has roots going back to the 1860’s. It first saw action in France during the Great War 1914 to 1918 when it took part in the well known battles of Loos, Vimy Ridge, River Somme, Ypres, Passchendale, Cambrai and Lille.
Its casualties numbered 158 killed.

Again in the Second World War it was called upon to play its part and fought with the 8th Army in Tunisia and then with the 5th and 8th armies in Italy. It was part of the first sea borne invasion fleet to land on the actual continent of Europe thus beginning its liberation from Nazi German domination. Battle honours include Salerno, Volturno, Garigliano, Mt Camino, Anzio, Gemmano, Monefiore, Coriano Ridge, Forli, Faenza, R. Senio Argenta.

Its peacetime recruits came mainly from the Putney, Shepherds Bush and Paddington areas of London up to the beginning of World War II. However on the commencement of hostilities and for the next two years many men left the regiment as reinforcements and for other reasons. As a result roughly one third of the original Territorials went abroad with the regiment, the remainder being time expired regular soldiers and conscripted men.

Casualties amounted to 84 killed and 160 wounded.

In 1937 I was nineteen years old and there was every indication that the dictators ruling Germany in particular and to a lesser degree Italy, were rearming and war seemed a not too distant prospect. Britain, in my opinion had gone too far along the path of disarmament since World War I and with a vast empire to defend was becoming alarmingly weak by comparison, particularly in the air and on land. It was in this atmosphere that my employers gathered together all the young men in their London office, and presumably, elsewhere, and indicated that they believed we really ought to join a branch of the armed forces in view of the war clouds gathering over Europe and the hostile actions of Messrs Hitler and Mussolini. There was a fair amount of enthusiasm in the air at the time and it must not be forgotten that we British in those days were intensely proud of our country. The Empire encompassed the world and it was only nineteen years since we had defeated Imperial Germany.

The fact that we may not do so well in a future war against Germany and Italy did not enter the heads of us teenagers. And we certainly had no idea that the army had not advanced very far since 1918 in some areas of military strategy.

In the circumstances I looked round for a branch of the forces that was local to where I lived and decided to join an artillery battery at Shepherds Bush in West London. The uniform, if you could call the rather misshapen khaki outfit by such a name, with its’ spurs was just that bit less unattractive than the various infantry or engineer units that were available. So in February 1937 I was sworn-in, with my friend Ernie and received the Kings shilling as was the custom. It so happened that soon afterwards conscription was introduced and I would have been called up with the first or second batch of “Belisha Boys”.

I had enlisted with 254 Battery Royal Artillery and I discovered, it was quite good so far as Territorial Army units were concerned, for that summer it came fourth in Gt Britain in the “Kings Prize” competition for artillery at Larkhill, Salisbury. In fact I happened to be on holiday in the Isle of Wight at the time and made special arrangements to travel to Larkhill and join my unit for the final and if my memory serves me correctly the winner was a medium battery from Liverpool.

My job as a “specialist” was very interesting indeed because even though a humble gunner — the equivalent of a private in the infantry — I had to learn all about the theory of gunnery. However after a year or so, indeed after the first years camp I realised that I was not really cut out to be a military type. In fact I am in no doubt that the British in general are not military minded and are somewhat reluctant to dress up in uniform. However I found that many of those who were military minded and lovers of “spit and polish” were marked out for promotion but were not necessarily the best choices for other reasons. There was also I suppose a quite natural tendency to select tall or well built men for initial promotion but my later experience tended to show that courage and leadership find strange homes and sometimes it was a quiet or an inoffensive man who turned out to be the hero.

Well the pressure from Hitler’s Germany intensified. There was a partial mobilisation in 1938 and in the summer of that year we went to camp inland from Seaford, Sussex. There were no firing ranges there so the gunners could only go through the motions of being in action but the rest of us, signallers, drivers, specialists etc. put in plenty of practice and the weather was warm and sunny.

During 1939 our camp was held at Trawsfynydd and the weather was dreadful. It rained on and off over the whole fortnight. Our tents and marquees were blown away and we had to abandon our canvas homes and be reduced to living in doorless open stables. Despite the conditions we did a great deal of training which included an all night exercise. The odd thing that I never understood is that both in Territorial days and when training in England from the beginning of the war until we went abroad there was always a leaning towards rushing into action and taking up three or four positions in a morning’s outing yet when it came to the real thing we had all the time in the world and occupying a gun site was a slow and deliberate job undertaken with as much care as possible. I believe it was the same in the first World War and also at Waterloo so I can only assume that the authorities were intent on keeping us on the go rather than simulating actual wartime conditions. Apart from going out daily on to the firing ranges we had our moments of recreation and I took part in at least one football match against another battery but I cannot remember the result. I always played left back although I really was not heavy enough for that position but I was able to get by as a result of being able to run faster than most of the attacking forwards that I came up against.

The really odd coincidence was that our summer camp in Wales was an exact repetition of what happened in 1914. Another incident that is still quite clear in my memory was that at our Regimental Dinner held, I believe in late July or early August of 1939, Major General Liardet, our guest of honour, stated that we were likely to be at war with Germany within the following month. He was not far out in his timing!

Well the situation steadily worsened and the armed forces were again alerted. This time on the 25th August 1939 to be precise. I was “called up” or “embodied” along with about half a dozen others. I was at work that day at the office when I received a telephone call from my mother with the news that a telegram had been sent to me with orders to report to the Drill Hall at Shepherds Bush at once. This I had expected for some days as already more than half the young men in the office had already departed because they were in various anti-aircraft or searchlight units that had been put on a full war footing. So that morning I cleared my desk, said farewell to the older and more senior members who remained, went home, changed into uniform, picked up my kitbag that was already packed, caught the necessary bus and duly reported as ordered.

I was one of several “key personnel” detailed to man the reception tables in the drill hall, fill in the necessary documents for each individual soldier when the bulk of the battery arrived and be the general clerical dogsbodies, for which we received no thanks whatsoever. The remainder of the battery personnel trickled in during the following seven days up to September 2nd and after being vetted was sent on to billets at Hampstead whilst we remained at the “Bush”.

The other three batteries in the regiment, namely 253, 255 and 256 were mustered in exactly the same manner. For instance 256 Battery went from their drill hall to Edgware in motor coaches and were billeted in private houses. The duty signallers post was in the Police Station and when off duty they slept in the cells! Slit trenches were dug in the local playing fields and four hour passes were issued occasionally. There were two ATS attached to 256 Battery at that time a corporal cook, and her daughter who was the Battery Office typist.

I well remember the day Great Britain formally declared war on Germany, a Sunday, because one of the newspapers bore headlines something like “There will be no war”. Thereafter I always took with a pinch of salt anything I read in other newssheets.

At this time our regiment was armed with elderly 18 pounders and possibly even older (1916 I believe) 4.5 howitzers. My battery had howitzers. They were quite serviceable but totally out of date particularly when compared with the latest German guns. They had a low muzzle velocity and a maximum range of only 5600 yards. Our small arms were Short Lee Enfield rifles, also out of date and we had no automatics. There were not enough greatcoats to go round and the new recruits were issued with navy blue civilian coats. Our transport, when eventually some was provided, was a mixture of civilian and military vehicles.

Those of us who remained at the Drill Hall were under a loose kind of military discipline and I do not think it ever entered our heads that the war would last so long. I can remember considering the vastness of the British and French empires and thinking that Hitler was crazy to arouse the hostility of such mighty forces. Each day we mounted a guard on the empty building we occupied and each day a small squad marched round the back streets, which I am certain did nothing to raise the morale of the civilian population.

There were false air raid alarms and we spent quite a lot of time filling sandbags which were stacked up outside all the windows and doors to provide a protection against blast from exploding bombs. In the streets cars rushed around with their windscreens decorated with such notices as “DOCTOR”, “FIRST AID”, “PRIORITY” etc, and it was all so unnecessary. Sometimes I felt more like a member of a senior Boy Scout troop than a soldier in the British Army.

After a few weeks the rearguard as we were now called left the drill hall and moved to Hampstead, not far from the Underground station and where the remainder of the battery was billeted in civilian apartments. They were very reasonable except that somebody at regiment had the unreasonable idea of sounding reveille at 0530 and we all had to mill about in the dark because the whole country was blacked out and shaving in such conditions with cold water was not easy. Being a Lance Bombardier my job when on guard duty was to post the sentries at two hourly intervals but the problem was that as we had no guardhouse the sentries slept in their own beds and there was a fair number of new recruits. Therefore you can imagine that as there were still civilians present, occasionally the wrong man was called. I remember finding my way into a third or fourth floor room and shaking a man in bed whom I thought was the next sentry to go on duty only to be somewhat startled when he shot up in bed and shouted “go away this is the third time I have been woken up tonight and I have to go to work in a few hours time!”

Whilst we were at Hampstead leave was frequent in the evenings and at weekends. Training such as it was, was of a theoretical rather than a practical form. However we very soon moved to “Bifrons House” in Kent, an empty stately home in very large grounds near Bridge and about four miles south of Canterbury. Here we resided until the middle of 1940.

In this position we had a bugler who blew reveille every morning while the Union Jack was raised, and lights out at night. The food was quite appalling in my opinion. It was prepared in large vats by a large and grimy cook and by the time it was distributed was almost cold due to the unheated condition of the dining area. Breakfast usually consisted of eggs eaten in the cold semi darkness and the yolks had what appeared to be a kind of plastic skin on them that was almost unbreakable. Indeed all meals were of the same poor standard and there was no noticeable improvement during our stay here.

The winter of 1939/40 was very long, very cold and brought a heavy fall of snow which stayed with us for several weeks. Christmas day was unforgettable. I had a touch of ‘flu and the first aid post where another soldier and myself were sent to was an empty room in a lodge house. There was not a stick of furniture, no heating, the floors were bare and we slept on straw palliasses on the floor. I recovered very quickly and was out in two or three days! On one day of our stay at Bifrons, on a Saturday morning there was a Colonels inspection and as a large number of sergeants and bombardiers were absent from among the gun crews I was detailed to take charge of one gun and stand in the frozen snow for the best part of an hour on what was I believe the coldest day of the winter. And so far as I remember our Commanding Officer decided not to include us and eventually we were dismissed and thawed out around the nearest fire.

In general however I think most of us quite enjoyed our stay here. It certainly was not like home but we made ourselves comfortable and parades finished about 1630 hours which gave us a fair span of time until “lights out”. At weekends we spent the Saturday evening in the pub in nearby Bridge and occasionally walked or begged a lift to Canterbury which was four miles away. In our spare time we played chess and various games of cards. From time to time we were entertained by groups of visiting artists or had sing-songs in typical army fashion. Looking back it was in some ways I suppose like an of beat low class boarding school with the battery numbering some two hundred and fifty men billeted in the bedrooms and stables of the house. Nevertheless we did a lot of training. We even went out in the cold snow covered countryside at night in our vehicles as if we were advancing or retreating, for two or three hours at a time. We had to take a certain preselected route which was very difficult to follow because with everything hidden beneath the snow, with no signposts and with trying to read an inch to the mile map at night with a hand torch giving only a very restricted light because of the blackout the odds against making a mistake were fairly high. We would come back cold and hungry to a mug of hot tea or cocoa and a bite to eat. By day we practised other aspects of artillery warfare either as part of the battery as a whole, sometimes with our signallers but more often as not as a group of specialists going through the many things we had to learn, time after time. When the weather improved this was a most enjoyable way of spending the morning or afternoon session for we could take our instruments out to an attractive bit of the countryside within walking distance of our billets and do some survey, map reading or a command post exercise.

Of course, 'way back in the 1930's "teenagers" hadn't been invented. In those now far off days one remained a 'child' -dependent on, and obedient to one's parents for more years than is often the case now, and the age of 'Majority', supposed adulthood, was 21, when you got the 'key of the door'. So, in the early 1930's, having moved to Acton from Kensington, where I was born in the 1st floor flat of 236, Ladbroke Grove, I grew towards my 'teens, enjoying a secure and happy childhood, doing reasonably well at School (Haberdashers' Aske's Girls' School, Creffield Rd) making friends and with freedom to play outside, alone or with my friends, and with no thought of danger from strangers, or heavy traffic.

And so, in 1939, I was 13 years old, when the war began. We had been on holiday in Oban, Argyll, where I now live, and as the news became more and more grave, and teachers were called back to help to evacuate school children from London, and Army and Navy reservists were called up, we travelled by car across to Aberdeen on Saturday 1st Sept. After a night in the George Hotel, and thinking the Germans were already bombing us when a petrol garage caught fire and cans of petrol blew up one after another, we caught the 9am train to London, Euston. The car travelled as freight in a van at the rear of the train (no Motorail then). The train was packed with service personnel, civilians going to join up and other families returning from holiday.
All day we travelled South. On the journey, there were numerous unscheduled stops in the 'middle of nowhere', and a severe thunderstorm in the Midlands added to the tension. Our car, in its van was taken off the train at Crewe to make room for war cargo (as we learned later). In normal times, the journey in those days took 12 hours to London. With the storm, numerous delays, and diversions and shunting into sidings, it was destined to take 18 hours. As darkness fell, blackout blinds already fitted, were pulled down and the carriages were lit by eerie dim blue lights. Soldiers and airmen sprawled across their kitbags in the corridors as well as in the carriages, sleeping fitfully. Nobody talked much.

Midnight passed, 1am. At last around 2am, tired, anxious and dishevelled, we finally arrived at Euston station on the morning of Sunday September 3rd.

My Mother and I sat wearily by our luggage in the vast draughty booking hall while my Father went off to see if, or when the car might eventually arrive. There was no guarantee. There were no Underground trains running until 6am, and, it seemed, no taxis to be had. In the end we sat there in the station forecourt until my Father decided that he could rouse his brother to come and collect us and our luggage. And so we finally reached home, had a brief few hours' sleep and woke in time to hear Mr Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, make his historic 11am speech. Those who remember it all know the icy shock of those words, that - 'consequently we are now at war with Germany'.

The air-raid sirens sounded almost immediately, though it was apparently a false alarm, but my parents decided that we would go and live at our country 'bungalow' at Ashford, Middlesex. Ashford in those days was little more than a village. London airport was a small airfield called Heathrow.

The 'bungalow' was simply one large wooden-built room, set on brick pillars, and roofed with corrugated asbestos, painted green, with a balcony surrounded by a yellow and green railing. Three wooden steps led down into the garden. Two sash windows gave a view of our large 3 acre garden, curtained with floral -patterned chintz curtains. Inside at one end was a sink fed by a rainwater tank, and an electric cooker, a large table, chairs and a large cupboard for crockery. Normally, we had, pre-war, used it for summer evening or weekend visits, returning home at night. It was only a six mile journey along the Great West Road.

Now, though, with war declared hurried preparations were made to leave London, as my parents didn't know what might happen in the way of possible attack on the Capital. Several journeys were made by car with mattresses, bedding, food, extra utensils, clothes and animals (two cats and two tortoises). The cats roamed free, having previously been used to the garden when we went on holiday, when they were housed in the bungalow and fed and cared for by our part-time gardener. They loved the freedom and the tree-climbing and never went astray. The torties, though, had to be tethered by means of a cord through a hole drilled in the back flanged edge of the shell (this is no more painful than cutting one's nails) until a large secure pen could be made, and a shelter rigged up.

My Father's brother joined us, his wife and son having already left for safety, and to be near his son's school, already evacuated to near Crowthorne, Berks.

After sleeping on the mattresses on the floor for a few nights (all 4 or us in the one room, of course), bed frames were brought from home and a rail and a curtain rigged up to make 2 'rooms' for privacy at night. My Father and Uncle slept in a double bed, both being fairly portly (!) and my Mother and I shared a single bed, which was rather a tight squeeze. There was no room for 2 double beds, and I was fairly small. After a few nights my Mother decided that we would have more room if we slept 'top-to-tail' and so we did this.

The lavatory was about 10 yards along a side path, and had to be flushed with a bucket of water. We were lucky in that we also were able to tap a well of underground water, for which my Father had rigged-up a pump. So even if there had not been much rain to fill the house tank, we could always obtain pure water from the well. Later we were connected to the mains. The lavatory emptied into a cesspit which my Father had dug.

This was the period of the 'phoney' war. I was enrolled at Ashford County School, which I only attended for one term, as we returned home to Acton at Christmas.
My own school had been evacuated to Dorchester with about half its pupils. Many parents, like my own, had decided not to send their children away. Later, some of those who had been evacuated became very homesick and returned home. Soon the school in Acton re-opened, with many of the Mistresses who had also returned to London. The Dorchester girls shared a local school, with both sets of girls attending on a half day basis.

Ration books and clothing coupons, food shortages and tightened belts became the norm, as, at school, did gas-mask drills in which we donned our masks and worked in them for a short while to become used to them. They smelt dankly rubbery. However sometimes we had a bit of fun as they could emit snorting noises!

My Mother had lined curtains with yards and yards of blackout material, and our large sash windows were criss-crossed with sticky tape. A stirrup pump, bucket of water and bucket of sand stood handy in case of incendiary bombs. All through the war, wherever we lived, we each kept a small case ready packed with spare clothing, wash things, a torch, and any valuables.

Wherever we went we carried our gas mask in its cardboard case on a strap over our shoulder. We each wore an identity bracelet with name and identity number. Mine was BRBA 2183. Butter and bacon rationing began on Dec. 8th - 4 oz of each per person per week.

It was 24th June, 1940, and I had not long passed my eighth birthday. Today was a special day — the day I was to be evacuated! I was to leave London for an unknown destination in Wales, that mysterious land on the other side of the world. Mother and I rose early. I was excited fit to bust and could not understand why Mother was snuffling and dabbing her eyes as she tied to the lapel of my jacket a luggage-label bearing my name and address and our telephone number, Acorn 2552. My khaki haversack was packed with a specially-expanded 'lunch' of hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches and plums. I was to take with me only a change of socks and underwear, for the rest of my things would be sent on to my destination when I had finally arrived.

I was given a breakfast worthy of an intrepid traveller, then, together, Mother and I set off to school.

'I'm-going-to-be-evacuated!'I trilled as I swung my gasmask-case on my shoulder.

Off we went down the old familiar route to John Perryn’s School that I had taken most days that I could remember. As the school came into sight I almost stopped in my tracks. All was not right with the world. For there, parked outside the school gates, were three red double-decker London Transport buses. I could hardly believe my eyes. No buses ever came down this road, let alone stopped outside the school. Great events were afoot!

Inside the school there was an air of emergency. Teachers and other, unknown, people hurried around purposefully holding pieces of paper. None of the usual rituals was observed, no marching into the assembly hall, no hymns, no Lord's Prayer. Instead, we went straight to our classrooms, where there was much calling for silence and the reading out of names. How exciting it all was!
Then at last we trooped out of school and into the buses, the adults sedately, the children chattering excitedly like seagulls and, luggage labels a-flutter, rushing for the coveted front seats on the top deck. Parents conferred anxiously with one another. What was the latest on the destination? Had they heard anything? Did They know something We didn't know? In all this confusion the buses started up and moved slowly off in convoy down the hill. The squealing rose to a crescendo. We were off! In fact the buses did not take us very far. A short ride and we were at Acton Main Line railway station, where our parents and teachers shepherded us off the buses and down onto the platform. There an extremely long train awaited us, together with what seemed like another thousand schoolchildren, all shouting or laughing or crying or looking bewildered. A carriage was allocated to our party and in not more than ten minutes of organised chaos we were settled into it.

Then, as we were to do so often in the next couple of days, we waited. Children dismounted from the carriages to talk to their anxious parents and were shooed back in by harassed teachers. The platform was packed. It was like a painting by Frith or a scene from “Gone With the Wind”. There was an affecting little tableau in whichever direction you looked. Last-minute instructions were given through carriage windows.

'Look after your sister and don't let anyone separate you!'

'Remember to clean your teeth!'

'Stay close to Mr. So-and-So and do everything he tells you!'

'Be sure and write as soon as you get there!'

I endured my fair share of such exhortations from Mother until finally, with a whistle and a hoot, the long train steamed slowly out of the station. Handkerchiefs were fluttered and dabbed quickly to eyes, farewells and futile final messages were lost in the hiss of steam, arms were waved furiously. I lost sight of Mother in the crowd but continued waving until the platform had disappeared from view. We were off on the long road to Wales.

The atmosphere was one of some gigantic school outing. Packets of sandwiches meant to last the journey were opened and scoffed in five minutes. Boys ran boisterously up and down the carriage corridors, despite the attempts of the accompanying teachers to keep order. Games of 'I Spy' were organised. Sporadic sing-songs broke out:

Knick-knack paddywack, give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home...

The train headed westward, stopping every now and then to pick up more young passengers. Eventually it stopped no more but chuffed on through unfamiliar countryside. It was a long, tedious journey and children settled down to sleep or relieved the boredom by quarrelling or even fighting, making it necessary for a teacher to restore order. As the hours wore on, even this activity stopped and the tired, slumped little bodies lay still, apart from the gentle rocking motion of the carriage.

Often, for no apparent reason, the train would grind to a halt and stand hissing steam as if itself complaining at the delay. Then it would edge forward again slowly, gradually increasing speed as it went. It was not until late afternoon that, as though to emphasise the fact that we were being cut off from home and all things familiar, the train entered a long tunnel. Smuts and smoke entered the compartment from the blackness and there was a rush to shut the windows. After an eternity we emerged back into the light of day. There was no going back now.

Gradually the countryside became hillier and somehow more alien. The children were quiet, partly from fatigue and partly from apprehension at what lay ahead. Some time in the evening we reached Cardiff station and, with much marshalling and shouting of instructions, we dismounted from the train and in several long columns were marched to a hospital where we were to spend the night.

I had been fortunate enough never to have visited a hospital before and it seemed to me just what I imagined a prison to look like, with its towering brick walls, barred windows and spidery, zigzagging fire-escapes. There was the equivalent of an exercise-yard, a grey expanse of asphalt, devoid of plants or grass, walled in with spiked black railings. I have since wondered what they had done with all the patients to accommodate our swarming hordes, for the place seemed deserted.

After an indifferent meal, served cafeteria-style from trestle tables and eaten anywhere we could find room to sit or stand, we were led off to the places where we were to spend the night. I found myself with a lot of other boys in a huge, dispiriting ward containing dozens of tubular-steel hospital beds, more beds in one place than I had ever seen in my life, arranged across the floor in rows and columns. Even so, there were not enough of them to go round and so we had to double up, two to a bed, head-to-foot. I shared with a quiet and uncommunicative boy who clambered into bed and fell asleep without even saying goodnight. Indeed, the only sound I ever heard him make, ten minutes later, was a gently hissing susurration as he bathed my backside in a flood of warm urine.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by absolute pandemonium. A pillow-fight had broken out. It was dark and I could just make out dim shapes jumping around on beds and running around squealing and hurling pillows and anything else they could get their hands on. Remembering too late my haversack beneath the bed, I reached for it only to have it snatched from my grasp in the darkness. In the morning I found it at the end of the ward; the hard-boiled eggs, plums and sandwiches had been squashed into a sticky, evil-smelling amalgam.

There was worse in the lavatory. Either a blockage or, more probably, the primitive toilet-training of some of my little companions, had resulted in a mess the like of which I had never before encountered, even in the 'Boys'' at John Perryn's. Archipelagic turds were dotted around the floor in a golden sea, on which little paper rafts floated disconsolately. It was a vicious circle. Rather than paddle through the mess, one did what one could from the doorway, thus making matters even worse.

After breakfast we were taken out into the yard, to stand in rows on parade while a teacher shouted out names from a list held in her hand.

'John So-and-So!'

'Here, Miss!'

'Sheila Such-and-Such!'

'Yes, Miss, present, Miss!'

The little hands would shoot up and the children whose names had been called would run out to the front and form a little group around the teacher with the piece of paper. When the party was thirty or so strong it would be marched off, the teacher at its head. There would be a delay of some minutes until a new master or mistress, with a new piece of paper containing a new list, would take the place so recently vacated. Another set of names was read out, more hands were raised and more children were led away, never to be seen again.

I have never read Kafka but I know how he felt. All morning the calling out of names continued. Mine was not among them. I began to get depressed and worried, fearing that my name had been lost or overlooked in the bustle and confusion and that it would not appear on any of the lists that the teachers held. It could so easily happen in all this to-ing and fro-ing, I reasoned to myself; indeed, the longer I stood there the less likely it seemed that anyone knew I existed.

Some of the children did not seem to be present to answer to their names, as though they had disappeared somewhere en route. This worried me further. Would the same thing happen to me? Would I just vanish off the face of the earth, or get lost in some Cardiff street? Would I stay here in this place for the rest of my life, standing in this yard while children arrived, were called out into a group and departed, leaving me behind? For a while I was tempted to answer to one of the missing children's names but this would mean altering the luggage-label tied to my lapel. I decided that I might well be found out and could in any case be jumping from the frying-pan into the fire.

After a break for lunch, the depleted throng lined up once more in the yard and the roll-calling continued long into the afternoon. I was by now sure that I was one of the damned, a lost soul. Suddenly I heard my own name called out:

'Terence Nunn!'

'Here!' I piped, flinging up my arm, glad to be back in the human race, to be somebody again instead of a nonentity fallen off the edge of everybody's list. The party I had been called to turned out to have a few fellow-members of John Perryn's, though I did not recognise anyone. Our group, a mere chipping off the block that had arrived, returned to the railway station where, after the now inevitable wait, we boarded another train. The final leg of our journey began. This time there were no scufflings and no songs about this old man playing knick-knack paddywhack. Instead, we stared soberly and silently out a ravaged industrial landscape. There was no fun here.

Eventually we entered a long, black valley, scarred with spoil-tips and the giant winding-wheels of collieries. Endless lines of coal- waggons on the adjoining track bore strange, complex words, the long, unpronounceable names of Welsh coal towns.

On our left we passed drab, grey stone cottages ranged in long terraces marching up the hill, one behind the other. On our right hung a dark mountain, its coal-mine perched at the edge, like a prison watch-tower standing guard over the village. The train slowed, clanking and hissing to a stop in a tiny station that was little more than a halt. DANNOEDD, said the board on the platform. We were ordered off the train. We had arrived at our destination.

From the little platform we watched as the train steamed off again and continued its journey along the valley, disappearing round the side of the mountain. Our party, some thirty strong, under the command of Mr. Ingleson, a schoolmaster who had come with us from London, hobbled into the village of Dannoedd like some diminutive defeated army returning from the front. There was nobody about. In the echoing main street my eye was caught by an advertising sign on the wall above a baker's shop: 'Turog Bread'. It was a brand I had never heard of in London; even the name itself sounded Welsh and alien. I was in a foreign country, far from home. The grim scene around me convinced me that I had been banished to some desolate wasteland, decaying and neglected by the rest of the world. Suburban niceties like roadside trees, kerbs and pavements, which I had always taken for granted, were unknown here; a mud roadway, dotted with embedded rocks, stretched unbroken from the front doors of one terrace of mean grey stone cottages to its facing neighbours.

The cramped back yards were partitioned off by dry stone walls which had collapsed in many places, letting in dirty grey sheep which browsed on the few miserable tufts of grass they could find among the upturned tin baths and fallen clothes-lines. I remembered the excitement with which I had set out to 'be evacuated' less than forty-eight hours before and suddenly longed with all my little soul for the familiar sights and sounds and smells of home. Doubtless my companions felt the same, for they all walked in silence.

We were marched to a building above whose front door letters of graven stone proclaimed it to be the Dannoedd Working Men's Club and Institute, 1926. Inside, we sat around, silent and apprehensive, on chairs and benches amid snooker tables and dartboards. We had been expected, for half the village seemed to be here. The miners and their wives, our prospective guardians, dressed curiously in their Sunday best, walked round the hall inspecting us, rather as though we had been cattle at a country market. It would hardly have seemed amiss had they wrenched open our mouths and started counting our teeth. The bidding started.

'I'll 'ave 'im, b'there!'

'Them two, we'll 'ave them ...'

''E do look all right, I don't want no-one too big ...'

'All right, sonny, ewe come with us, no, not ewe, ewe!'

'I'd rather 'ave a little girl, reely ...'

And so our little party was whittled down by ones and twos until only a handful of us were left. I began to panic once more, fearing that I would remain, alone on my bench, unwanted by anyone, sleeping on a billiard table until the war ended.

I was saved from any possibility of this fate by a middle-aged couple, who came and stood in front of me and looked me over. The man stood awkwardly in his dark blue suit and trilby hat, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His wife, a worried-looking woman in a flowered dress, looked from me to the boy sitting next to me, as though unable to choose between us. I did my best to look appealing. The couple, speaking in low, diffident voices, exchanged words in an incomprehensible language which I took to be Welsh.

Mr. Ingleson sidled up with his list, like a shopwalker anxious to push his wares.

'We'll 'ave these two,' said the other man pointing to me and the boy next to me. Mr. Ingleson took everybody's name for his list and I learned that my little companion was named Kenny Everitt and came from John Perryn's, though I had not known him there. He was a small, thin, solemn-faced boy. Our new guardians were Mr. and Mrs. Davies, who lived just across the road.

We walked out into the warm dusk with Mr. and Mrs. Davies. Relief was tempered with nervousness as they took us the fifty or so yards to their cottage. We went into the kitchen, where we were introduced to their daughter, Haulwen, a brawny girl of thirteen with a shock of thick blonde hair. We were given a quick supper of bread-and-jam and tea and, as we ate, made desultory, embarrassed conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Davies, answering their questions about ourselves, our homes and our families, under the silent scrutiny of the girl Haulwen. To these people we were foreigners, strange little beings from a place and a way of life that they could hardly begin to imagine.

After the meal, Kenny and I were led to the sink for a quick wash in an enamel bowl filled from a kettle which sat permanently on the stove. Then we were taken up the narrow staircase of the cottage and put to bed in a small upstairs room, from the little window of which we could see the mountain looming in the twilight, with the pit-wheel jutting from its side.

'I'm gonner cry meself ter sleep. I don't like this 'orrible dump!' said Kenny, once the bedroom door had closed and we were alone.

'Me too!' I said.

But it was not to be. Two days of sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and scratch meals had made us wonderfully windy. Lying beside me in the double-bed, Kenny let out a long, sonorous bugle-call. We sniggered, half afraid that the Davieses must have heard. Then I replied in kind and there were more sniggers. Soon a full-scale contest was in progress. Our determination to wash the night away in tears was forgotten; instead, we flatulently giggled ourselves to sleep.

It was 24th June, 1940, and I had not long passed my eighth birthday. Today was a special day — the day I was to be evacuated! I was to leave London for an unknown destination in Wales, that mysterious land on the other side of the world. Mother and I rose early. I was excited fit to bust and could not understand why Mother was snuffling and dabbing her eyes as she tied to the lapel of my jacket a luggage-label bearing my name and address and our telephone number, Acorn 2552. My khaki haversack was packed with a specially-expanded 'lunch' of hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches and plums. I was to take with me only a change of socks and underwear, for the rest of my things would be sent on to my destination when I had finally arrived.

I was given a breakfast worthy of an intrepid traveller, then, together, Mother and I set off to school.

'I'm-going-to-be-evacuated!'I trilled as I swung my gasmask-case on my shoulder.

Off we went down the old familiar route to John Perryn’s School that I had taken most days that I could remember. As the school came into sight I almost stopped in my tracks. All was not right with the world. For there, parked outside the school gates, were three red double-decker London Transport buses. I could hardly believe my eyes. No buses ever came down this road, let alone stopped outside the school. Great events were afoot!

Inside the school there was an air of emergency. Teachers and other, unknown, people hurried around purposefully holding pieces of paper. None of the usual rituals was observed, no marching into the assembly hall, no hymns, no Lord's Prayer. Instead, we went straight to our classrooms, where there was much calling for silence and the reading out of names. How exciting it all was!
Then at last we trooped out of school and into the buses, the adults sedately, the children chattering excitedly like seagulls and, luggage labels a-flutter, rushing for the coveted front seats on the top deck. Parents conferred anxiously with one another. What was the latest on the destination? Had they heard anything? Did They know something We didn't know? In all this confusion the buses started up and moved slowly off in convoy down the hill. The squealing rose to a crescendo. We were off! In fact the buses did not take us very far. A short ride and we were at Acton Main Line railway station, where our parents and teachers shepherded us off the buses and down onto the platform. There an extremely long train awaited us, together with what seemed like another thousand schoolchildren, all shouting or laughing or crying or looking bewildered. A carriage was allocated to our party and in not more than ten minutes of organised chaos we were settled into it.

Then, as we were to do so often in the next couple of days, we waited. Children dismounted from the carriages to talk to their anxious parents and were shooed back in by harassed teachers. The platform was packed. It was like a painting by Frith or a scene from “Gone With the Wind”. There was an affecting little tableau in whichever direction you looked. Last-minute instructions were given through carriage windows.

'Look after your sister and don't let anyone separate you!'

'Remember to clean your teeth!'

'Stay close to Mr. So-and-So and do everything he tells you!'

'Be sure and write as soon as you get there!'

I endured my fair share of such exhortations from Mother until finally, with a whistle and a hoot, the long train steamed slowly out of the station. Handkerchiefs were fluttered and dabbed quickly to eyes, farewells and futile final messages were lost in the hiss of steam, arms were waved furiously. I lost sight of Mother in the crowd but continued waving until the platform had disappeared from view. We were off on the long road to Wales.

The atmosphere was one of some gigantic school outing. Packets of sandwiches meant to last the journey were opened and scoffed in five minutes. Boys ran boisterously up and down the carriage corridors, despite the attempts of the accompanying teachers to keep order. Games of 'I Spy' were organised. Sporadic sing-songs broke out:

Knick-knack paddywack, give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home...

The train headed westward, stopping every now and then to pick up more young passengers. Eventually it stopped no more but chuffed on through unfamiliar countryside. It was a long, tedious journey and children settled down to sleep or relieved the boredom by quarrelling or even fighting, making it necessary for a teacher to restore order. As the hours wore on, even this activity stopped and the tired, slumped little bodies lay still, apart from the gentle rocking motion of the carriage.

Often, for no apparent reason, the train would grind to a halt and stand hissing steam as if itself complaining at the delay. Then it would edge forward again slowly, gradually increasing speed as it went. It was not until late afternoon that, as though to emphasise the fact that we were being cut off from home and all things familiar, the train entered a long tunnel. Smuts and smoke entered the compartment from the blackness and there was a rush to shut the windows. After an eternity we emerged back into the light of day. There was no going back now.

Gradually the countryside became hillier and somehow more alien. The children were quiet, partly from fatigue and partly from apprehension at what lay ahead. Some time in the evening we reached Cardiff station and, with much marshalling and shouting of instructions, we dismounted from the train and in several long columns were marched to a hospital where we were to spend the night.

I had been fortunate enough never to have visited a hospital before and it seemed to me just what I imagined a prison to look like, with its towering brick walls, barred windows and spidery, zigzagging fire-escapes. There was the equivalent of an exercise-yard, a grey expanse of asphalt, devoid of plants or grass, walled in with spiked black railings. I have since wondered what they had done with all the patients to accommodate our swarming hordes, for the place seemed deserted.

After an indifferent meal, served cafeteria-style from trestle tables and eaten anywhere we could find room to sit or stand, we were led off to the places where we were to spend the night. I found myself with a lot of other boys in a huge, dispiriting ward containing dozens of tubular-steel hospital beds, more beds in one place than I had ever seen in my life, arranged across the floor in rows and columns. Even so, there were not enough of them to go round and so we had to double up, two to a bed, head-to-foot. I shared with a quiet and uncommunicative boy who clambered into bed and fell asleep without even saying goodnight. Indeed, the only sound I ever heard him make, ten minutes later, was a gently hissing susurration as he bathed my backside in a flood of warm urine.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by absolute pandemonium. A pillow-fight had broken out. It was dark and I could just make out dim shapes jumping around on beds and running around squealing and hurling pillows and anything else they could get their hands on. Remembering too late my haversack beneath the bed, I reached for it only to have it snatched from my grasp in the darkness. In the morning I found it at the end of the ward; the hard-boiled eggs, plums and sandwiches had been squashed into a sticky, evil-smelling amalgam.

There was worse in the lavatory. Either a blockage or, more probably, the primitive toilet-training of some of my little companions, had resulted in a mess the like of which I had never before encountered, even in the 'Boys'' at John Perryn's. Archipelagic turds were dotted around the floor in a golden sea, on which little paper rafts floated disconsolately. It was a vicious circle. Rather than paddle through the mess, one did what one could from the doorway, thus making matters even worse.

After breakfast we were taken out into the yard, to stand in rows on parade while a teacher shouted out names from a list held in her hand.

'John So-and-So!'

'Here, Miss!'

'Sheila Such-and-Such!'

'Yes, Miss, present, Miss!'

The little hands would shoot up and the children whose names had been called would run out to the front and form a little group around the teacher with the piece of paper. When the party was thirty or so strong it would be marched off, the teacher at its head. There would be a delay of some minutes until a new master or mistress, with a new piece of paper containing a new list, would take the place so recently vacated. Another set of names was read out, more hands were raised and more children were led away, never to be seen again.

I have never read Kafka but I know how he felt. All morning the calling out of names continued. Mine was not among them. I began to get depressed and worried, fearing that my name had been lost or overlooked in the bustle and confusion and that it would not appear on any of the lists that the teachers held. It could so easily happen in all this to-ing and fro-ing, I reasoned to myself; indeed, the longer I stood there the less likely it seemed that anyone knew I existed.

Some of the children did not seem to be present to answer to their names, as though they had disappeared somewhere en route. This worried me further. Would the same thing happen to me? Would I just vanish off the face of the earth, or get lost in some Cardiff street? Would I stay here in this place for the rest of my life, standing in this yard while children arrived, were called out into a group and departed, leaving me behind? For a while I was tempted to answer to one of the missing children's names but this would mean altering the luggage-label tied to my lapel. I decided that I might well be found out and could in any case be jumping from the frying-pan into the fire.

After a break for lunch, the depleted throng lined up once more in the yard and the roll-calling continued long into the afternoon. I was by now sure that I was one of the damned, a lost soul. Suddenly I heard my own name called out:

'Terence Nunn!'

'Here!' I piped, flinging up my arm, glad to be back in the human race, to be somebody again instead of a nonentity fallen off the edge of everybody's list. The party I had been called to turned out to have a few fellow-members of John Perryn's, though I did not recognise anyone. Our group, a mere chipping off the block that had arrived, returned to the railway station where, after the now inevitable wait, we boarded another train. The final leg of our journey began. This time there were no scufflings and no songs about this old man playing knick-knack paddywhack. Instead, we stared soberly and silently out a ravaged industrial landscape. There was no fun here.

Eventually we entered a long, black valley, scarred with spoil-tips and the giant winding-wheels of collieries. Endless lines of coal- waggons on the adjoining track bore strange, complex words, the long, unpronounceable names of Welsh coal towns.

On our left we passed drab, grey stone cottages ranged in long terraces marching up the hill, one behind the other. On our right hung a dark mountain, its coal-mine perched at the edge, like a prison watch-tower standing guard over the village. The train slowed, clanking and hissing to a stop in a tiny station that was little more than a halt. DANNOEDD, said the board on the platform. We were ordered off the train. We had arrived at our destination.

From the little platform we watched as the train steamed off again and continued its journey along the valley, disappearing round the side of the mountain. Our party, some thirty strong, under the command of Mr. Ingleson, a schoolmaster who had come with us from London, hobbled into the village of Dannoedd like some diminutive defeated army returning from the front. There was nobody about. In the echoing main street my eye was caught by an advertising sign on the wall above a baker's shop: 'Turog Bread'. It was a brand I had never heard of in London; even the name itself sounded Welsh and alien. I was in a foreign country, far from home. The grim scene around me convinced me that I had been banished to some desolate wasteland, decaying and neglected by the rest of the world. Suburban niceties like roadside trees, kerbs and pavements, which I had always taken for granted, were unknown here; a mud roadway, dotted with embedded rocks, stretched unbroken from the front doors of one terrace of mean grey stone cottages to its facing neighbours.

The cramped back yards were partitioned off by dry stone walls which had collapsed in many places, letting in dirty grey sheep which browsed on the few miserable tufts of grass they could find among the upturned tin baths and fallen clothes-lines. I remembered the excitement with which I had set out to 'be evacuated' less than forty-eight hours before and suddenly longed with all my little soul for the familiar sights and sounds and smells of home. Doubtless my companions felt the same, for they all walked in silence.

We were marched to a building above whose front door letters of graven stone proclaimed it to be the Dannoedd Working Men's Club and Institute, 1926. Inside, we sat around, silent and apprehensive, on chairs and benches amid snooker tables and dartboards. We had been expected, for half the village seemed to be here. The miners and their wives, our prospective guardians, dressed curiously in their Sunday best, walked round the hall inspecting us, rather as though we had been cattle at a country market. It would hardly have seemed amiss had they wrenched open our mouths and started counting our teeth. The bidding started.

'I'll 'ave 'im, b'there!'

'Them two, we'll 'ave them ...'

''E do look all right, I don't want no-one too big ...'

'All right, sonny, ewe come with us, no, not ewe, ewe!'

'I'd rather 'ave a little girl, reely ...'

And so our little party was whittled down by ones and twos until only a handful of us were left. I began to panic once more, fearing that I would remain, alone on my bench, unwanted by anyone, sleeping on a billiard table until the war ended.

I was saved from any possibility of this fate by a middle-aged couple, who came and stood in front of me and looked me over. The man stood awkwardly in his dark blue suit and trilby hat, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His wife, a worried-looking woman in a flowered dress, looked from me to the boy sitting next to me, as though unable to choose between us. I did my best to look appealing. The couple, speaking in low, diffident voices, exchanged words in an incomprehensible language which I took to be Welsh.

Mr. Ingleson sidled up with his list, like a shopwalker anxious to push his wares.

'We'll 'ave these two,' said the other man pointing to me and the boy next to me. Mr. Ingleson took everybody's name for his list and I learned that my little companion was named Kenny Everitt and came from John Perryn's, though I had not known him there. He was a small, thin, solemn-faced boy. Our new guardians were Mr. and Mrs. Davies, who lived just across the road.

We walked out into the warm dusk with Mr. and Mrs. Davies. Relief was tempered with nervousness as they took us the fifty or so yards to their cottage. We went into the kitchen, where we were introduced to their daughter, Haulwen, a brawny girl of thirteen with a shock of thick blonde hair. We were given a quick supper of bread-and-jam and tea and, as we ate, made desultory, embarrassed conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Davies, answering their questions about ourselves, our homes and our families, under the silent scrutiny of the girl Haulwen. To these people we were foreigners, strange little beings from a place and a way of life that they could hardly begin to imagine.

After the meal, Kenny and I were led to the sink for a quick wash in an enamel bowl filled from a kettle which sat permanently on the stove. Then we were taken up the narrow staircase of the cottage and put to bed in a small upstairs room, from the little window of which we could see the mountain looming in the twilight, with the pit-wheel jutting from its side.

'I'm gonner cry meself ter sleep. I don't like this 'orrible dump!' said Kenny, once the bedroom door had closed and we were alone.

'Me too!' I said.

But it was not to be. Two days of sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs and scratch meals had made us wonderfully windy. Lying beside me in the double-bed, Kenny let out a long, sonorous bugle-call. We sniggered, half afraid that the Davieses must have heard. Then I replied in kind and there were more sniggers. Soon a full-scale contest was in progress. Our determination to wash the night away in tears was forgotten; instead, we flatulently giggled ourselves to sleep.

I have worked overtime and rest days throughout Royal Ascot Week dozens of times over the years but I think the day I picked up Alf and Daisy is the freshest in my mind. It was a gorgeous day and my driver and I were on our normal service duty, 701 from Gravesend. I guessed the young couple who boarded us up the Old Kent Road were off to the races — best clothes and a paper carrier bag holding a warm cardigan, sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and a lemonade bottle full of cold tea practically shouted “out for the day at Ascot” — and so it was. They sat about halfway up the coach, making a start on the sandwiches almost immediately after paying their fare. Alf had done the trip before and kept telling Daisy how quickly we should travel once we had left the London traffic behind and what a great day they were going to enjoy. Daisy was very quiet until we crossed the river at Lambeth Bridge and approached Victoria. Then, obviously in strange country, began to ply Alf with questions — “Where were we now?”, “How much farther was the race course?”, “What was the great big building over there?”. Although he had made the trip once before, I suspect that Alf had probably been more likely to be studying form in his newspaper than looking out the window at the passing scene but he rose to the occasion nobly and when he didn’t know the answer to a question he promptly made up one of his own. Thus I learnt that St. George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner was “some big toff’s house” and Hyde Park Corner itself became Marble Arch! Every time I passed up and down the coach collecting fares I overheard more of this highly amusing conversation and I must admit I began to see the route in quite a different light from that day on.

But the best was yet to come. Within about one and a half miles of our destination the coach had to slow down considerably as the Royal Carriage swung out of a lane in front of us. It was a beautiful sight — the horses groomed to perfection, the silver in the harness winking in the bright sunlight, the panels of the coach-work gleaming with a mirror-like polish and the groom and postillions at the back — very smart in their Royal Livery. Obviously they were going to pick up the Royal Family and take them to the course. Then, from behind me, came the unmistakable voice of Daisy with yet another question, “Why are we going so slow, Alf?” Not being able to see from his seat, Alf got up and walked to the front and I stood aside so that he could see the Royal Coach in all its glory. He took one look and then turned his head back to call out, “No wonder we’re going so blinking slow — we’re behind a HORSE AND CART!”

At least that episode was more amusing than yet another journey on the 701 route. My driver at the time was Tom, a young bachelor of about twenty-five who lived alone in a caravan at Wraysbury. We knew it would be a busy journey, leaving Staines at about 8 a.m. and due at Victoria about an hour later. The traffic was heavy through Houslow and Brentford and even heavier when we pulled up at traffic lights near Kew Bridge, alongside Brentford Market. The lights changed to green and the coach pulled away. Seconds later I became aware that strangled noises were coming from the driving cab alongside me. At first I thought Tom was trying to sing and turned to joke about the quality of his voice. To my horror I saw that he was half up from the driving seat, hands dropped from the wheel, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth and eyes bolting from his head. Luckily, his foot had also slipped partly off the accelerator pedal but the engine was still running and the coach travelling at about ten miles per hour towards the oncoming traffic. Without consciously realising what I was doing, I leaned over, thrusting my right arm across Tom to reach the handbrake and struggling to pull the wheel towards the kerb with my left. To my relief, the coach responded, actually mounting the kerb and running some yards along it. Fate was kind that day as it was 4th October and my wedding anniversary and there were no cyclists riding on the nearside at that moment and no pedestrians standing on the kerbside.

Someone opened the door and the driver of a passing trolley bus who had witnessed the incident dashed in and turned off the engine while an inspector materialised to phone for an ambulance. The odd thing about the whole affair was that I remained as cool as a cucumber until after the ambulance had taken poor Tom off to hospital — even writing out an auxiliary waybill and getting the passengers on the next coach to continue their journey — but as soon as that was accomplished I almost collapsed and had to be half carried into a nearby teashop till I felt fit enough to travel again. I felt a real fool — shaking like a leaf and crying like a baby for almost twenty minutes. A team of mechanics arrived from Chiswick Works to examine the coach and, finding everything in order, take it back to Chiswick for a more detailed check-up. Until we knew what was wrong with Tom it was always possible that he had been affected by fumes or even suffered an electric shock of some kind.

The inspector put me on a bus back to Staines where I had to make a detailed report, both written and verbal, to the Chief Inspector and arrived to find that the news had gone before me and I was treated like some kind of heroine. True — I had averted what might have been a very serious accident, but since I had acted without even thinking about it and since I had been moved by nothing more heroic than a strong sense of self preservation I felt rather a fraud. Probably sensing this Ron Coles — a depot inspector at that time but now the Chief — told me the police would almost undoubtedly be along to arrest me soon on a charge of driving without a licence!

We later learned that Tom had suffered an epileptic fit and would no longer be allowed to drive for us. Apparently, when questioned by the doctors, he could remember waking up on the floor of his caravan on several occasions in the past and had believed that he had nothing more than a restless night. The attack on the coach was the first time that the affliction had manifested itself in waking hours. Thus make it possible to diagnose and treat him.

The following day, with a relief driver, I did the same duty and one of the passengers brought me a big box of chocolates. It was a very nice gesture on her part but there was another sequel to the story that still makes me laugh when I remember it. On completing the day’s work I was told that I was to go to London to meet one of the Board Managers who wished to thank me for my actions the day before. Instead of reporting for work I was to present myself at Western House, Oxford Circus at 10 a.m. and even provided with a special Green Line Pass for the occasion. When the news got around in the garage my mates began to speculate as to what form the gratitude would take — a life-saving medal, perhaps? It was almost certainly a sum of money — estimations going even as high as twenty pounds.

Although still feeling something of a fraud and very embarrassed over the whole affair I duly arrived at Western House and entered the office where I was greeted by a very distinguished gentleman whose name I never caught and do not know to this day. After congratulating me on my presence of mind and coolness of action he mentioned that his fellow members on the board agreed that I deserved some sort of reward for my bravery and enquired as to whether I had been a special Green Line Pass to travel from Staines. On being assured that this was the case he went on to say that I was being paid and would not have to work that day so the rest of the day was my own and I was free to use the Pass and go wherever I liked on the Green Lines for the rest of the day! Somehow I managed to keep a straight face while thanking him and leaving the office only to collapse into a fit of giggles on emerging into Oxford Circus. Passers-by must have thought I was crazy but the thought of rewarding a Green Line conductor with a free pass to travel round for a day was really rather comical. After spending eight hours every working day doing just that the last thing I wanted on my day off was a Green Line ride! Instead I returned, mostly by Underground, to Hounslow and then bus to Staines — it was quicker that way! Within an hour of leaving London I was handing in the special pass and telling my mates about the interview. I am certain that at least half of them believed I was making it all up but an official report came back to the Chief Inspector the following week to verify what I had said. I’m still laughing!

For some reason the incidents I remember on the 725 road are almost all linked to bad weather conditions; heavy fogs between Bromley and Crayford, deep snow between Dartford and Gravesend and a torrential downpour that flooded Crayford for a depth of four feet and held us up for several hours. As the coaches were heated we rarely wore overcoats and a sudden fog would mean the conductor leaning out of the open door to keep an eye on the kerb and guide the driver along the road. Not as bad as walking in front of the tram with a flare perhaps but a cold and miserable duty when you were twenty miles from home and shivering in a summer uniform, so I was somewhat less than delighted when I was approached by a lady passenger warmly clad in a fur coat and gloves who complained of the draught caused by the open door and couldn’t we go a bit faster as she didn’t want to be late at the Bridge Club! This thoughtless remark left me speechless — but not so my driver, however — he brought the coach to a halt, closed the door and climbed out of the driving seat, “Here you are, ducks,” he said, holding the door to the cab open, “There’s a nice heater in there to keep your feet warm — see if you can get us there any quicker!” Without another word the irate passenger meekly returned to her seat and we proceeded on our way.

We dreaded deep snow, especially between Dartford and Gravesend. There were several gravel pits some ten feet or so from the road with only a frail wire fence between the coach and a sheer drop of sixty feet or more. No matter how slowly and carefully the coach was driven there was always the danger of a heavy lorry skidding into us and sending us over the top. I suppose the sand and gravel lorry drivers were on piecework — they always seemed to be driving like maniacs on that road no matter what the weather was like. One of our coaches did bring the wire down once but, mercifully, came to a halt a bare eighteen inches from the edge.

In a heavy downpour one day, on a narrow winding country lane between Chislehurst and Sidcup, we were overtaken by a car. Spotting another car coming round the bend in the opposite direction, the lady driver cut in front of us very sharply and my driver had to brake very quickly in a vain attempt to avoid hitting her car, the front of the coach catching the tail light of the car as it swerved in front of us. Our relief, that the accident was nothing more than a broken taillight, was very short lived. Those old RF coaches were notorious for vicious back-wheel skids and this one was no exception — the back came round right in the path of the oncoming car, crushing the bonnet and offside wheel and smashing the windscreen. By some miracle, the driver was unhurt but absolutely furious — the car was only three days old and looked a total wreck. Climbing across the passenger seat, he charged down the road towards the lady driver, by now out of her car, waving her hands in the air and in tears on surveying the damage she had caused. She looked so pathetic and apologetic that the poor man stopped shouting and swearing and ended up putting an arm round her and supplying a large white handkerchief to dry her tears!

Of course, all accidents have to be fully reported on the appropriate form at the conclusion of the day’s work, in the crew’s own time, and all accidents are entered on the driver’s record should London Transport decide that their driver was in the wrong. Despite a letter of abject apology from the lady driver and another from the driver of the wrecked car stating that, in his opinion, the accident involving his own car was totally unavoidable; my driver was held to blame on two counts: 1) He was too close to the car in front and 2) He had been trained on the skid patch at Chiswick on how to control a skid and was, therefore, to blame for damaging the other car! In vain, he protested that all skid patch training was with a double deck bus on an enormous square half the size of a football pitch — whereas the accident involved an RF coach on a narrow country lane. His appeal was dismissed, he lost a day’s pay and the accident was entered on his record sheet.

I suppose the reason behind such harsh judgements is to keep the drivers alert to possible accident situations in future, though it frequently results in a driver giving notice and leaving the job. There is no doubt that London Transport employs some of the finest drivers in the world as a result of such high standards.