broken down. So we pulled up and asked what was wrong, and the driver and his mate said that when they switched over to the reserve fuel tank the
engine showed no life at all.
I tipped my assistant the wink and he strolled round the vehicle to check for mud on the fuel cap. We were in luck . . .
My mate quietly knocked the mud from the cap and we both walked to the front of the ambulance. We told the driver and his mate that we had not long returned from filming in Africa and that,
while there, we had picked up some witchcraft that might help him. We told them to stand by the ambulance and rest one hand on the bonnet while raising the other hand in the air. They were to
repeat after us the special magic words that we would recite. We went down on one knee and began to recite a load of mumbo-jumbo that we made up as we went along. After a while, we stood up and
confidently told them that the engine should now start. On the second push of the starter, low and behold, the engine sprang to life. You should have seen those Yanks’ faces! They gave us
chocolate and some other gifts and drove off full of praise for African witchcraft. We found out later that the two British cameramen who had learned witchcraft from Africa were the talk of the
American unit.
Chas Keith, Malton, North Yorkshire
It was just after Dunkirk, at an airfield near the Norfolk coast. Everyone was jittery. I was a lance bombardier on an anti-aircraft gun. My mate was a bombardier. All units
were at a stand-to. Everyone, including the locals, was wondering, ‘Where will they land?’
Early one evening, my pal and I went for a walk and a pint. Having discussed what everyone assumed was the imminent invasion, we arrived at a small local pub and decided to start it on our own.
Outside the pub rested a bike and inside, one country worker talking to the old landlord.
‘The invasion has started,’ said my friend. ‘Give us two pints.’
‘Get these chairs outside,’ he ordered, which I did.
‘And get these pictures off the walls!’
‘What for?’ said the landlord.
‘The maps go there,’ I said. ‘This is now Division HQ.’
All of this was carried out at great speed – including drinking our beer. I’d stacked the chairs and pictures against the wall.
‘They should be arriving shortly! Let’s take a look.’
Gazing professionally down the road, I said: ‘What next, bombardier?’
‘Every man for himself,’ he said, jumped on the bike and was gone.
I took to my heels and ran after him . . .
L. R. Dyke, Great Yarmouth
It was in late 1940 that I was on a course at Harlesden. We were bedded down in a disused factory and had to provide a guard during the night. More a case of the usual
‘bull’, actually. I was on one night when, at about 10 p.m., a plane could be heard approaching at quite a low height. He suddenly appeared overhead and commenced to fire a burst of
tracer down the High Street. Of course, we were not supplied with any ammo, although only the good Lord knows why. So I rushed into the company office and yelled: ‘Quick, sarge, give us some
ammo, there’s a bloody Jerry out there.’
My thought was, of course, that with the plane at such a low altitude, I might be able to score, at least if only to let the blighter know that someone down there was alive to the danger.
The sarge replied: ‘The ammo’s in the safe!’
‘Well, for Pete’s sake, open it then!’
‘Can’t – the orderly officer’s got the key.’
‘Well, call him!’
‘He’s not here. He’s gone to the pictures!’
Stan Lynn, Woodford Green
As an army officer undergoing flying training in 1942, prior to taking up duties flying army aircraft, I had reached the stage where it was time to do my first solo
cross-country flight. My progress up to that stage had been achieved in shorter time than the rest of my group, so it was not without some cockiness that I climbed into the cockpit, taxied across
the airfield and took off
engine showed no life at all.
I tipped my assistant the wink and he strolled round the vehicle to check for mud on the fuel cap. We were in luck . . .
My mate quietly knocked the mud from the cap and we both walked to the front of the ambulance. We told the driver and his mate that we had not long returned from filming in Africa and that,
while there, we had picked up some witchcraft that might help him. We told them to stand by the ambulance and rest one hand on the bonnet while raising the other hand in the air. They were to
repeat after us the special magic words that we would recite. We went down on one knee and began to recite a load of mumbo-jumbo that we made up as we went along. After a while, we stood up and
confidently told them that the engine should now start. On the second push of the starter, low and behold, the engine sprang to life. You should have seen those Yanks’ faces! They gave us
chocolate and some other gifts and drove off full of praise for African witchcraft. We found out later that the two British cameramen who had learned witchcraft from Africa were the talk of the
American unit.
Chas Keith, Malton, North Yorkshire
It was just after Dunkirk, at an airfield near the Norfolk coast. Everyone was jittery. I was a lance bombardier on an anti-aircraft gun. My mate was a bombardier. All units
were at a stand-to. Everyone, including the locals, was wondering, ‘Where will they land?’
Early one evening, my pal and I went for a walk and a pint. Having discussed what everyone assumed was the imminent invasion, we arrived at a small local pub and decided to start it on our own.
Outside the pub rested a bike and inside, one country worker talking to the old landlord.
‘The invasion has started,’ said my friend. ‘Give us two pints.’
‘Get these chairs outside,’ he ordered, which I did.
‘And get these pictures off the walls!’
‘What for?’ said the landlord.
‘The maps go there,’ I said. ‘This is now Division HQ.’
All of this was carried out at great speed – including drinking our beer. I’d stacked the chairs and pictures against the wall.
‘They should be arriving shortly! Let’s take a look.’
Gazing professionally down the road, I said: ‘What next, bombardier?’
‘Every man for himself,’ he said, jumped on the bike and was gone.
I took to my heels and ran after him . . .
L. R. Dyke, Great Yarmouth
It was in late 1940 that I was on a course at Harlesden. We were bedded down in a disused factory and had to provide a guard during the night. More a case of the usual
‘bull’, actually. I was on one night when, at about 10 p.m., a plane could be heard approaching at quite a low height. He suddenly appeared overhead and commenced to fire a burst of
tracer down the High Street. Of course, we were not supplied with any ammo, although only the good Lord knows why. So I rushed into the company office and yelled: ‘Quick, sarge, give us some
ammo, there’s a bloody Jerry out there.’
My thought was, of course, that with the plane at such a low altitude, I might be able to score, at least if only to let the blighter know that someone down there was alive to the danger.
The sarge replied: ‘The ammo’s in the safe!’
‘Well, for Pete’s sake, open it then!’
‘Can’t – the orderly officer’s got the key.’
‘Well, call him!’
‘He’s not here. He’s gone to the pictures!’
Stan Lynn, Woodford Green
As an army officer undergoing flying training in 1942, prior to taking up duties flying army aircraft, I had reached the stage where it was time to do my first solo
cross-country flight. My progress up to that stage had been achieved in shorter time than the rest of my group, so it was not without some cockiness that I climbed into the cockpit, taxied across
the airfield and took off
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