Patrick Hogan
Remembering how Whittington was effected by WW2

“Don’t you know there’s a War on?”

One trait above all others distinguishes people still alive who grew up in the Second World War.   It is that they rarely, if ever, complain about anything.  Growing up in the war mostly meant doing without.   Without food, except for the basic rations.  Without lights at night.  Without many new clothes or shoes.   Without bus rides or car rides.  Without having a father at home, without knowing where he was and if he was safe and without the certainty of knowing that you and your family would wake up safe the next morning if German bombers came tonight.  Very quickly everyone learned not to complain for it always resulted in someone rounding on you with the scathing rebuke  “Don’t you know there’s a War on ?”

These famous and ubiquitous seven words were an openly made and contemptuous judgement that one had let the side down by ignoring the misery and real suffering that was going on everywhere in the war  - just because of a slight inconvenience. The phrase was dreaded, for it was trotted out time and time again all over the country to reprimand anyone disloyal enough forget the realities of War and actually voice a complaint.  I truly believe that if I had been knocked over by a lorry in the blackout and so forgot myself as to groan a little when put on to a stretcher – someone would have said sharply  “Stop moaning, don’t you know there’s a war on ?”

And so we didn’t complain about anything, no matter what.  Everyone learned to bear shortages, inconveniences, injuries and even death itself without complaint, because it was sure that someone, somewhere,  was suffering more.  And children who grew up like that, stayed like that – and still don’t complain.   Nor do they sue for compensation at the drop of a hat for they understand that there is in life such a thing as an accident, there are other people far worse off and after all – we’re still alive aren’t we?

Patrick Hogan, 17 March 2009

Village of idiots

On 10th May 1940, Nazi Germany invaded Belgium, Holland and France. Before the end of June, all three countries had been over-run and 230,000 bedraggled British, French and Belgian servicemen, had been rescued from Dunkirk as well as thousands from other French and Belgian ports.  We waited hourly for the German invasion of Britain which everyone was sure would come.  These were dark days and scare stories were rife of the speed, cunning and ruthlessness of the Wehrmacht.  German spies were said to be dropping by parachute dressed as nuns or in British Army uniforms, to cause havoc before the invasion force landed.
 
Newspaper editors let their reporters imaginations overheat and printed every word. German spies were lurking in every alley and behind every bush.  Orders were rushed out to counter perceived threats which mostly never existed - for there were no hordes of German spies nor fifth column agents wandering through the country preparing to blow up all and sundry – but we all thought that there were. 

Signposts and town signs had been removed at the outbreak of war and now warnings were put out in the papers, over the wireless and in cinemas against giving information to suspicious strangers.   After Dunkirk, drivers having to go to unfamiliar parts of the country and getting lost were being arrested when asking for help. The possession of a map was seen as extremely suspicious. German spies were known to be fiendishly clever and resourceful with just one weakness – the inability to pronounce the letter W.  Poor commercial travellers were being arrested and required to say things like  “What a wonderful way to visit Winchester”  - and woe betide anyone who in confusion or panic said “Wisit” or “Vinchester”   

One hot and sunny day in the summer of 1940 a few of us little boys were standing on the pavement outside Pearce’s display window in Church Street. Along the road from the direction of Church Farm came a man in an open shirt riding a touring bicycle with a soft leather case strapped to the carrier behind him.

He saw us, slowed down and stopped. “Good morning to you, can you help me?  I’m lost; what’s the name of this village?”   He was wearing a trilby hat.

We were dumbstruck.  This had to be a German spy. No one said a word and just looked back at him.  He tried again “I’m trying to get to the Barracks, is it near here?”  Our eyes opened even wider, but our mouths remained clamped shut.  The man had a camera hanging by a strap round his neck.  We all looked at each other and wanted to run away but we were rooted to the spot and couldn’t move.

The man tried for a third time speaking clearly and slowly “I’m trying to get to the Barracks but I don’t know which way to go. Is it this way?”  We all just stood and looked at him. Not a sound came from the lips of any of us, nor could we move. We were so scared and must have shown it. We’d never seen a German spy before. He probably had a gun and would kill us.

But he didn’t kill us, he just looked long and hard at each of us, and rode off down Church Street.  Half way down, he stopped again near the Phillips’ house. After a little while he rode off again.  When we were sure he had gone, we ran down to where the Phillips girls were waiting.

“Where did he go?” I asked

“Up Fisherwick Lane towards Elford” they said.

“What did you say to him ?”

“Nothing” said June Phillips, “We didn’t say a word, honest – even when he kept on asking.  But he was so rude and he swore”

“Why ?”

“Well, as he rode off, he said” -  “This bloody village is full of idiots !”

Patrick Hogan  30 March 2009  

When the Yanks came

The first Americans came to Whittington Barracks in 1942.  The barracks had been emptied in advance except for a few British liaison officers who remained as “token landlords” and the Regimental Band of the North Staffordshire Regt which was based there for the rest of the war.  Throughout 1942, preparations were made at the barracks for the arrival of the tens of thousands of U.S. Forces which would arrive in the coming years.

Americans soldiers were not intrusive as far as the village was concerned. Soldiers on leave or off duty tended to make for the attractions of the large cities especially, of course, London itself.  Locally, Lichfield and Tamworth attracted them more than our village although a few long serving Americans soldiers did in fact become “regulars” at the Dog, Bell or Swan.  At weekends, parties of newly arrived soldiers might wander down Barracks Lane (Common Lane) to check on the village but they seldom stayed long before moving on to the towns.

American soldiers were incredibly generous. It soon became a problem to refuse the unending amounts of sweets (and cigarettes) that were proffered. The Americans had so much of everything that we had not. They had real difficulty in comprehending that we had got used to doing without sweet things and could not suddenly accustom ourselves to such deluges of goodies. After three years of spartan rations in the war, many of the things they took for granted as being essential to life were not considered important by us – we had grown leaner and harder through the early war years and knew what we needed and what we didn’t.

I remember sitting in the snow by the side of the canal with a number of other boys in the winter of 1942.  Some of them had pockets full of chocolate, sweets and packet after packet of Pall Mall, Camel, Philip-Morris, Chesterfield and Lucky Strike cigarettes, given to them by the Yanks.  The bigger boys lit up and passed the packets round till we all tried a cigarette. Some of us went green and some were sick in the snow. None of the younger boys finished their cigarette. I didn’t smoke again myself until I was twenty – and then only briefly from boredom in the Egyptian desert.  The sweets and chocolates remained mostly uneaten and were passed on to other children.

In December 1942, the Americans laid on a Christmas Party for all the children of the surrounding area. American army trucks brought many hundreds of us into the barracks to sit down at tables groaning under the weight of food we hadn’t seen for years - if ever!  Turkey, cooked meats of all sorts, sweet potatoes, vegetables etc etc etc. stood ready for us in profusion.  This was not a party – it was a FEAST.  Our plates were piled high by cooks and serving men anxious only that our stomachs should be filled to the brim with their excellent and superbly cooked fare.  Bloated after doing our best not to disappoint our noble and generous hosts, we sat back in our chairs for a breather.  Not a bit of it – with a blast of trumpets, enormous bins of red, white and orange puddings were wheeled into the great dining hall and each child was presented with a large bowl filled with sickly-sweet pudding covered with ladles full of blancmange.  Balloons, crackers and little presents of all sorts rained down on us in a never ending stream.  Santa Claus arrived to scatter yet more gifts, sweets and chocolates.  Every child was required to accept more than was possible to carry as we were wished a Merry Christmas by these most generous of men.

As we left the hall on our way back to the trucks which waited to take us home, our ears ringing with American good wishes and “Merry Christmas”, I ducked desperately into the scrupulously cleaned lavatories which had been prepared for us – and was sick again and again and again.  I was not alone; plenty of children were there before me and after me, doing exactly the same thing.  I was mortified that the Americans should see us and believe that their food was perhaps not good.  It was good alright, it was excellent.  It was probably the best food we ate in the whole six years of the war.  It was just too good, too rich and as far as the pudding was concerned much too sweet, for our young wartime stomachs.

But how were those wonderfully generous American soldiers to know that?

Patrick Hogan     9 June 2009