ARTS TO INTELLIGENCE
1939 - 1946
by
Doreen J Galvin (nee Grey)
Copyright 2013 Doreen Galvin
All rights reserved
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1908-4
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
PREFACE
At the outset of this narrative, I intended to write 30-40 pages at the request of my two daughters, and for the future interest and amusement of my three young grandchildren. After I began what I thought would be a short task, my interest and my enthusiasm grew as I recalled one after another the incidents and situations that had been but fleeting memories in my mind for over fifty years. I do not guarantee the accuracy of every detail but my memory portrays, I believe, the actual facts and the true atmosphere of the times.
D. J G.
June 2013
A NEAR MISS
The German Air Force bombers crossing the East Sussex coast were passing over our village. They flew in continuous waves as they droned on their way to London. It was late October, 1940, and it was going to be another of those nights of which we had experienced so many lately.
I lay in my bed waiting to hear the last of them so that I could get an hour's sleep before their return. Tonight the Luftwaffe were out in force - for nearly half an hour they had been flying above us heading north - it was obvious that London was in for a bad time again. My mother, lying awake in her room, told me later that she was thinking exactly the same thing.
Suddenly, I heard an unfamiliar sound, which cut through the noise and deep droning of the advancing bombers. At first, it was a distant, piercing kind of sound. Almost instantaneously it grew into a loud whistle, then with accelerating speed into a shriek of rushing air, continuing with a roar that almost split my ear drums. A quick thought came to me - would I still be around to see the sunrise?
SILENCE - utter silence! It took a minute or two to regain my hearing as gradually the droning sounds returned to my ears. I was still here to tell the tale! Lying on a divan bed with no space to dive underneath, I found myself curled up with my hands protecting my face. It was an automatic reaction. I do not remember getting into that position. Jumping out of bed, I groped my way towards my mother's bedroom. In the middle of the living room, we collided in pitch darkness. We dared not infringe the blackout rules for our own safety and there was no moon, so, in blackness, we sat on the sofa and discussed the situation. Should we go to the "dug-out" shelter or stay where we were? Were we surrounded by time bombs or by duds? If we went to the bomb shelter, would we be any safer than here? We had no idea where the bombs had fallen, but the sound had indicated a salvo of them rather than an isolated one. We opted to stay in the comfort of our beds and postponed the search for the "gifts from Hitler" until daylight.
My mother's bungalow was situated close to the sea, part way up a steep hill in the village of Pett, six miles east of Hastings. We shared a three-acre garden with my uncle and aunt, Frank and Mab Earle, whose home was about fifty yards higher up the slope. We had an open and uninterrupted view from the sea in the east to the hills in the west. On each side of our garden sheep grazed in the fields. On the south side, a cart track ran beside a stream which drained the picturesque marshland in the valley below. The track connected us to the road leading to the bus stop and the beach. High up the slope at the north end of the property, our private lane entered the village road at the summit of Chick Hill, infamous for its 1 in 4 gradient. As youngsters, my cousins and I would wait at the bottom of the hill during the summer holidays, to watch unsuspecting drivers making a casual run up the gradient. We had to be ready to run out of the path of any unsuccessful car, reversing downhill out of control. In those days, few cars could negotiate a very steep hill successfully.
My uncle had tunnelled a bomb shelter into the side of the hill in the garden next to his home, a retreat for all of us. From that vantage point, we had a magnificent view out to sea to the east and looking over the cliffs to the south. On particularly clear days, it was possible to see the far distant coastline of France across the wide expanse of the English Channel. We enjoyed a delightful rural picture of undulating hills and woodlands in the west, culminating in the distant and distinctive silhouette of Fairlight Church, with its square tower on the supposedly highest point in Sussex. From the viewpoint of our bomb shelter, we observed the Battle of Britain and all that was going on above us at the time, diving for the protection of the dugout when things happened too quickly or were too close for comfort.
The morning following our "gifts from Hitler", we rose at dawn; my uncle came to our door to see how we had fared. After the salvo of bombs had landed, he saw that our house was still standing, so guessed that we had decided to spend the night in our beds. He said, with a wry smile, “You probably did the wisest thing. We spent an uncomfortable night in the shelter and, on leaving the safety of it this morning; we saw a piece of newly upturned turf by the entrance. Judging by the angle of its entry, we spent the whole night sitting on top of an unexploded bomb!" He added,” I think you and I had better go and look for the rest of them."
We both ventured out to do a survey of the garden. It was a difficult search as part of the land was under cultivation, the other area being covered with rough grass that was cut only twice a year. After searching for about ten minutes, we discovered two pieces of tell-tale turf, newly prised up from the soil. They were located no more than twenty or thirty feet from our bungalow. We continued our inspection from north to south, then criss-crossed the garden from east to west. We had every intention of discovering all the unwelcome missiles. It must have been nearly two hours before we were satisfied that we had a final count. There were eleven bombs buried in various places deep down in the garden. After a final hunt and marking the points of entry with bamboo sticks, we rang the Bomb Disposal Squad. My uncle and I thought that we had done a good job, and hoped secretly for a word of praise and immediate action from the Bomb Squad. We were a little taken aback when the voice on the other end of the 'phone answered, "They might be time bombs so we'll wait a week before doing anything." "What do we do in the meantime?" we asked. "You can just stay put, or go away if you feel nervous," came the calm reply. Terrific! So we had to live with the situation as close neighbours to a salvo of unexploded bombs - we had nowhere else to go!
There was an amusing daily incident that we saw take place at 8:25 each morning during the following week. At least four more bombs had fallen into the canal adjacent to the road leading to the bus turn-around. These missiles were discovered by deduction. Four separate splashes of mud and marshland debris had been found spread across the road next morning.
One particular man from the village was a regular traveller on the 8:30 a.m. bus to Hastings. We would watch him from our window each day as he walked towards the first muddy patch on the road. Approaching it, he would break into a fast trot, and then into a gallop, as he passed all four danger areas as quickly as possible. Gradually, then, he would resume normal walking speed with as much dignity and cool courage as he could muster. The bus was parked in full view at its terminal point at the T junction ahead of him. It was also a daily entertainment for the other commuters, who, already sitting in their seats, awaited the daily spectacle. He filled the village gossip column for quite a long time!
We,
