How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On (21 page)
Read How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On Online
Authors: Anton Rippon
I combed numerous radio shops and second-hand dealers, and put an advertisement in the local newspaper, and eventually I had sufficient parts to build my radio. Five weeks later I had all I
needed, including an alarm clock for transmitting a ‘tick-tock’ to test it. It worked like a dream and so I decided to show it to our local MP, Daniel Lipson. I took only the receiver
to his house and assured him that we wouldn’t be breaking the law as there was nothing illegal about receiving radio signals, only sending them. When he heard the ‘tick-tock’
being transmitted from my home, he was taken aback and told me to put the whole thing out of sight and that he’d contact me in due course. Well, when his answer came it was: ‘No can
do.’
I knew what would happen next, so I put the apparatus away, together with a postcard that read: ‘Made by J.M.S. for use by HG – maybe. Date completed and checked 1 October 1940. Cost
of construction (pair) £14 10s 0d.’ Then I waited.
Seventy-two hours later there was a knock on our front door. There stood two detectives. They had it on good authority that I had in my possession instruments for the transmission of radio
signals contrary to Section 8 of the Defence of the Realm Act. I was taken to the police station where my story was taken down and I was put in a cell, together with a deserter who was waiting for
the Military Police. I thought: ‘Isn’t it marvellous? He’s in here for shirking his duty and I’m in here for overdoing mine.’
Finally, in the early evening, they took me back upstairs. Some technical bods had examined my radio and I was free to go. It was smiles all round. They even laid on a car. My first stop was
home to pick up my Home Guard kit. My second stop was the Home Guard HQ, where I handed in my resignation. I was fed up of playing at soldiers.
The following day, my old CO asked me if I’d go with him to see the officer commanding the Home Guard in the area. The OC thanked me for my efforts in trying to improve communications and
make my unit one of the most up-to-date. He said that my radio was being sent to Southern Command for testing, but later I was told that it had been impounded ‘for the duration of the
war’.
Just after that Christmas I received my call-up papers. I passed my medical and then was interviewed by a selection officer. I noticed that my card had one difference to everyone else’s:
there was a dotted red line under my name. I wondered if it was some sort of code, some hint about my tangle with the authorities over my radio apparatus. Anyway, the selection officer said that he
thought it unlikely that I would be called up – and I never was! I still think I was right, though, in doing what I did.
J. M. Seward, Seaton, Devon
We were going on patrol one night and our officer, a rather toffee-nosed chap who had fought in the First World War, got us together and gave us what he thought was a pep
talk. His final words were: ‘Remember chaps, if the invasion comes tonight, then we must not let the enemy past.’ And one little private piped up from the back: ‘No chance of
that, sir. They’ll never catch us!’
Ivor Townsend, Redditch
We had this officer in charge of our Home Guard unit in Norfolk. He was a real old duffer from the First World War. The rumour was that he’d never seen active service
then, just served in office jobs in England. I don’t know if that was true because he sported a chest full of medal ribbons. I can’t imagine that he’d have been awarded so many if
he’d never left our shores. Nevertheless, we resented him because he never stopped showing off, constantly reminding us about his previous war service. One day he turned up on parade with
even more medal ribbons. There was hardly any room left. He was inspecting us and as he walked past, from the middle of our ranks came a voice: ‘Blimey, he’s got a note on there saying,
“Continued on the back.”
The officer spun round and said: ‘Who said that?’
No one owned up and it took us all our time to control our laughter.
There was another bloke in our platoon who was on patrol, walking down a country road, when a car came round the corner. The lad jumped into the middle of the road and shouted:
‘Halt!’ So the driver stopped and the lad said again: ‘Halt!’
The driver said: ‘I’ve halted. What more do you want me to do?’
And the lad replied: ‘I don’t know. My orders are to say “Halt” three times – and then shoot.’
Sometimes, it really was difficult to take the war all that seriously down in deepest Norfolk.
Dennis Roberts, Reading
Our Home Guard unit contained a couple of locals who were well-known poachers. I don’t know how they got hold of spare ammunition but they never returned from night
patrol without a couple of dead rabbits under their coats. One was a real dead loss, to be honest, and there was this famous occasion when he was on sentry duty, on his own, and the officer
decided to test him out. When he heard footsteps in the dark, instead of the regulation ‘Halt, who goes there?’, he called out: ‘Is that you, Harold?’ Harold was his
mate, the other poacher. It was all very laid-back stuff. Bit of fun and games, really, I suppose.
Roy Burns, Dorset
We had to stage an attack on a rival Home Guard platoon who were supposed to be defending a water tower. I think we took it a lot more seriously then they did, though, because
we were creeping up on them in the dark when suddenly there was a hell of a commotion – voices and then the sound of footsteps hurrying – and then complete silence. We wondered what
trick they were playing and we lay there for about a quarter of an hour before gingerly making our way forward again. When we got within range of the water tower, we still couldn’t see
anybody. The place was deserted. The other lot had apparently decided to unilaterally call the exercise to a halt because they realized that it was opening time and there was a pub down the road.
It was probably a good job that the Germans never landed.
Bernard Buckler, Derby
Early one morning, I was on duty with a few others and we were looking for a German pilot who had come down the afternoon before. One of the lads shouted out that they had found
him hiding up Conyer Creek.
It was about a hundred yards away so we all ran over to the hiding spot. It was very marshy over there and there was lots of swearing as one or another fell over.
When we got there a farmer with a pitch fork was standing over a very frightened German pilot who was sitting with his hands in the air. He must have had a very cold night and he looked pretty
pleased to be captured.
We took him away, but the farmer made sure he was in the lead with his pitchfork right up behind him. The pilot was more scared of the farmer than he was us and our old rifles.
Norman Luckhurst, Kent
In 1940 I was eighteen, and my pal, Arthur, seventeen. Only those who experienced those nervous days, after the fall of France, can appreciate the fervour of patriotism that
gripped the country and caused Arthur and myself, among a million others, young and not so young, to sign up for what was then called the Local Defence Volunteers.
To begin with, we were put through the complications of arms drill by ‘old sweats’, who showed much restraint each time rifles evaded stiff fingers and clattered to the ground. One
of the ways to stop a tank, we were told, was to place an upturned dinner plate on the road. The tank driver, mistaking this for an anti-tank mine, would probably bring his tank to a halt. The rest
was easy: wait for the tank hatch to open, then lob in a grenade. It sounded all right and the younger ones especially seemed to be taking it in. But I had a little nagging doubt myself. If this
neat trick had already been tried out in France, then it couldn’t have worked all that well.
Anyway, after a fortifying drink or two had helped us ready ourselves to take on the whole Nazi army if necessary, Arthur and me set off around 9.30 on a Friday evening to report for our first
night guard duty. Searching for our headquarters, a deserted farmhouse, we had just crossed a boggy field when all at once a voice came from out of the darkness.
‘Stop!’ it said. Then, ‘Halt! I mean: Halt! Who goes there?’
‘Us,’ said Arthur. There was a bit of a pause.
‘You can’t say that,’ went the voice, sort of indignant. ‘You gotta say it. You gotta say “Friend or foe”.’
‘Friend or foe,’ obliged Arthur.
After a longer pause, I could just make out this shadowy figure approaching us, holding what looked like a broom handle with a bayonet tied to it. ‘You gotta be one thing or the
other,’ it complained, getting nearer. ‘I mean, I’m supposed to make you say it.’ By then the sharp end of the bayonet was waving close to our faces. ‘You gotta say
it.’
‘We’re LDV,’ I answered before Arthur could further complicate our arrival.
At the broomstick end of the weapon, the shadow took on a tin-hatted, white disc of a face wearing glasses. ‘How do I know you’re not just saying that? For all I know you could be
foe.’
‘We ain’t got bloody parachutes on. We got armbands on, see!’ said Arthur, now getting a tad aggressive, thanks to the beer. ‘Ain’t you got no torch?’
The bayonet lowered itself. ‘We’re still waiting for new batteries, like. Hold on, though, I’ve got some matches here. I’d better make sure, hadn’t I?’