passenger on her
way to Staffordshire. Laughter all round . . .
Bernard Buckler, Derby
I remember one game between Charlton Athletic and Millwall at The Valley in 1940. There were only sixty seconds remaining when the air-raid warning siren sounded. The raid was a
heavy one with shrapnel from nearby anti-aircraft guns falling on the stadium. The 1,500 spectators took cover and when the all-clear sounded, the game resumed and the final minute played out.
Millwall won 4–2. Can you imagine, people just hanging around while an air raid was taking place, just so that they could see the final minute of a football match where the result was already
beyond doubt? I think that shows just how much people took things in their stride.
Frank Broome, Ottery St Mary
During the Blitz one bomb scored a direct hit on a house a few doors away from ours in the East End. It was a right mess, and out of it a big bedstead was thrown right across the street and
landed on its legs. And, would you believe it, there was a pair of trousers, neatly folded, still hanging over the rail.
But I think the funniest thing I ever saw was in the West End. It would have been late in 1944, and I was in a long queue, waiting for a bus. Suddenly we heard a doodlebug. Then all went quiet
and everyone chucked themselves on the floor. We had no idea where it was going to land. Fortunately, for us at least, it was some streets away. Everyone got back up and the queue reformed. Then I
felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a ‘city gent’.
He said: ‘Excuse me, but I think I was in front of you.’
I won’t tell you what I said to him.
George Foster, London
FOR KING AND COUNTRY
I t was something that my mother often used against my father. Even thirty years after VE Day, she would, when provoked, remind him of the day in
September 1939 that he asked her to stand in a queue and find out how he could avoid military service. To be fair, her version of the event was tailored to suit her point. On the day war broke out,
my father was a Linotype operator – a typesetter – employed by the
Hull Daily Mail
. As such, he was in a ‘reserved occupation’ and, like most other skilled
tradesmen, would have found it difficult to be accepted into the armed forces even if he had wanted to join up. Which he clearly did not, but all he had asked her to do was to pop down to the
Labour Exchange and collect the relevant forms.
He was not alone. In 1939, and unlike in 1914, there was no patriotic surge to join the Colours. Memories of ‘the last unpleasantness’ were still raw. Conscription had ended in 1920,
but in May 1939 the rapidly deteriorating international situation saw the introduction of the Military Training Act. Single men aged between twenty and twenty-two were liable to be called up as
‘militiamen’ to mark them as separate from the regular army. They were even issued with a civilian suit as well as a uniform, just to underline their status as part-time soldiers who
would undergo six months’ basic training before being discharged into a reserve, from where they would be recalled for short training periods and an annual camp.
But before the first intake had completed their initial six months, war was declared and they found themselves regular soldiers. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act had been passed and now
all men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one (by 1942 the upper limit had been raised to fifty-one) were liable for military service, except if they were medically unfit, of course; or unless
they were in one of those coveted reserved occupations like lighthouse keepers or newspaper Linotype operators.
Many servicemen on the Home Front found themselves billeted with civilians. My parents took in men from the Royal Signals who were stationed at a nearby telephone exchange. One
of them stood six feet eight inches tall, and was universally known as ‘Nelson’, after the column, I suppose.
way to Staffordshire. Laughter all round . . .
Bernard Buckler, Derby
I remember one game between Charlton Athletic and Millwall at The Valley in 1940. There were only sixty seconds remaining when the air-raid warning siren sounded. The raid was a
heavy one with shrapnel from nearby anti-aircraft guns falling on the stadium. The 1,500 spectators took cover and when the all-clear sounded, the game resumed and the final minute played out.
Millwall won 4–2. Can you imagine, people just hanging around while an air raid was taking place, just so that they could see the final minute of a football match where the result was already
beyond doubt? I think that shows just how much people took things in their stride.
Frank Broome, Ottery St Mary
During the Blitz one bomb scored a direct hit on a house a few doors away from ours in the East End. It was a right mess, and out of it a big bedstead was thrown right across the street and
landed on its legs. And, would you believe it, there was a pair of trousers, neatly folded, still hanging over the rail.
But I think the funniest thing I ever saw was in the West End. It would have been late in 1944, and I was in a long queue, waiting for a bus. Suddenly we heard a doodlebug. Then all went quiet
and everyone chucked themselves on the floor. We had no idea where it was going to land. Fortunately, for us at least, it was some streets away. Everyone got back up and the queue reformed. Then I
felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a ‘city gent’.
He said: ‘Excuse me, but I think I was in front of you.’
I won’t tell you what I said to him.
George Foster, London
FOR KING AND COUNTRY
I t was something that my mother often used against my father. Even thirty years after VE Day, she would, when provoked, remind him of the day in
September 1939 that he asked her to stand in a queue and find out how he could avoid military service. To be fair, her version of the event was tailored to suit her point. On the day war broke out,
my father was a Linotype operator – a typesetter – employed by the
Hull Daily Mail
. As such, he was in a ‘reserved occupation’ and, like most other skilled
tradesmen, would have found it difficult to be accepted into the armed forces even if he had wanted to join up. Which he clearly did not, but all he had asked her to do was to pop down to the
Labour Exchange and collect the relevant forms.
He was not alone. In 1939, and unlike in 1914, there was no patriotic surge to join the Colours. Memories of ‘the last unpleasantness’ were still raw. Conscription had ended in 1920,
but in May 1939 the rapidly deteriorating international situation saw the introduction of the Military Training Act. Single men aged between twenty and twenty-two were liable to be called up as
‘militiamen’ to mark them as separate from the regular army. They were even issued with a civilian suit as well as a uniform, just to underline their status as part-time soldiers who
would undergo six months’ basic training before being discharged into a reserve, from where they would be recalled for short training periods and an annual camp.
But before the first intake had completed their initial six months, war was declared and they found themselves regular soldiers. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act had been passed and now
all men between the ages of eighteen and forty-one (by 1942 the upper limit had been raised to fifty-one) were liable for military service, except if they were medically unfit, of course; or unless
they were in one of those coveted reserved occupations like lighthouse keepers or newspaper Linotype operators.
Many servicemen on the Home Front found themselves billeted with civilians. My parents took in men from the Royal Signals who were stationed at a nearby telephone exchange. One
of them stood six feet eight inches tall, and was universally known as ‘Nelson’, after the column, I suppose.
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