ALF SYRETT, MEMORIES AND MEMOIRS
(1923-2004)
Alf's memoirs of his London boyhood were dictated onto tape and transcribed by his wife Marion. This is a sample reflecting some of the colourful people and events in his London childhood, together with a letter of his own to his great-grandson, a note about a birthday reunion, and other titbits that cast light on this grand old man of Hobart. Alf settled in Australia, and finally in the capital city of Tasmania, where some of his descendants live. He held several senior positions in industrial and public safety.
ALFIE’S STORY
Alfred Charles Syrett (Alfie's father) was born on the 5th of November 1901, the only son of Alfred Charles and Agnes Amelia Syrett of 49 Caesar Street, Shoreditch. His father had been born in Poplar, London and had worked at several different jobs in the East End, as they had lived at several different addresses. He had been a butcher, a journeyman and was now employed as a dock labourer at East End docks. During the Boer War he had been in the army in Africa, and fascinated young Alfie with tales of the war and the hot African landscape. He told of long route marches in stifling, unbearable heat, when the men had to put stones in their mouths to suck and thus stop their tongues from sticking to the roofs of their mouths. His mother, Amelia, had been born in Bethnal Green and worked sporadically as a charwoman. Alfie had an older sister Amelia Rosina, known as Rose, who had been born “the wrong side of the blanket”, being two years older than their parents’ marriage. His little sister Dorothy, promptly shortened to Dolly, was born when Alfie was six. Life was tough in the East End, but the children went to school for their basic education. Here he discovered a love of carpentry and developed a skill that was to stay with him for the rest of his life.
When Alfie was thirteen he started his first job at a factory called the Forest Gate Oilcloth Company. They made a fabric with a waterproof backing which was a popular table covering of the day. It was patterned with roses and all kinds of flower designs. There was a scalloped edged oilcloth runner covering the kitchen mantle in his own home. Then later he went to work for a grocer in Manor Park where he was an errand boy delivering customers’ orders to their houses. Though he was small in stature he was quite strong and carried the orders in a large basket. It was quite a common occurrence to carry his basket from one side of Wanstead Flats to the other and to receive a penny tip for his efforts. Alfie was a good, steady worker and after some time was made a grocery assistant in the shop.
It was while he was working in this capacity that he met and married Lizzie Judd, who captivated Alfie with her warm, hearty laughter and her love of life. Lizzie was older than he and had lost her sweetheart in the war in France. Alfie himself had been too young to enlist in the forces, and he, guiltily, was thankful that Lizzie was still available to him, as he doted on her in his quiet way.
Eventually Alfie was promoted to manager of the grocery shop, and as by now he and Lizzie had two sons, Alf Jnr. and Eric, the increased wages gave them a fairly good living. In those hard days, the average worker’s wage was about one pound a week – if a man could get a job! Alfie was earning about three pounds a week and they were very comfortable. In later years he decided that he wanted to improve himself and got a job with a man by the name of Tesca (not Tesco) who had grocery shops in Ilford, which was a little further out of London in the green area, and he managed two very much bigger grocery shops. Later on he went into partnership with the owner of the two shops and stayed in that position all the way through the Second World War years. Alfie loved his garden and what time he had away from the shops was spent working on his allotment tending his vegetables, or building something for the house or toys for his growing family, who wanted for nothing. He and Lizzie doted on their brood and spoiled them shamelessly. It was a busy, happy household with no forewarning of sad times ahead. But that’s another story…………
ALF’S RECOLLECTIONS
I must have been around four years of age when I remember the old radio we had. It was a radio without a loudspeaker. To listen you had to put on earphones. The power source was an accumulator, which I suppose was like a battery, but it was filled with acid and other metals to produce electricity, and this was connected to the radio. I can remember sitting and listening to it at a very young age.
As I think about it, I can remember a little further back. Our first radio was known as a crystal set, also powered by an accumulator. I don’t think it had valves, just a crystal inside it with a thin piece of wire called a cat’s whisker that you wandered around the crystal until you heard speech. I think that was the first type of radio ever, and you listened to it with earphones too. I can remember being sat on the table and dad putting the headphone on me and twiddling the piece of wire around the crystal and I heard speech and music. When I was possibly four, maybe five, dad bought his first valve-operated radio. A parcel was delivered to the house and we had to wait for dad to come home from work for him to open the parcel. It was a radio that you had to assemble yourself. I even remember the name to this day. It was a Lissen, a most appropriate name I thought. Dad spent almost the whole night assembling the radio as it was a new thing and nobody knew much about it, so it was a case of trial and error for him. Dad let me stay up and “help” him. At about 2 a. m. the first station dad was able to pick up was America!It was an unforgettable experience.
We had the Lissen radio for quite some time until the electricity was connected. I can recall the ditches being dug down the sides of the road and the electric cables from whacking great big cable drums were laid in the ditches, which were then filled in. Shortly after the men came around and put wiring into the houses. I came home from school and mum said, “look what we’ve got”. There was a small brass dome on the wall. Mum said, “push that little lever down Alfie”. I did, and the light came on!That was the first time I had seen domestic electricity work. Our lighting before that was from town gas, which was piped into the house. Just inside the front door you had a gas meter. You bought your gas a penny worth at a time. The gas pipes stuck out of the wall with a mantle at the end. The mantle was made of incandescent carbonised cotton and was extremely fragile. It was a small cone-shaped cylinder that sat in the elbow of the brass gas pipefitting, to which you held a match whilst turning a small spigot to turn on the gas jet. You daren’t touch it with the match or it instantly shattered and disintegrated into ash, so you had to be very careful lighting it.
But now we had electricity and could do lots of things we hadn’t been able to do before. Nights in the house now were four times as bright and we could play games, read; all kinds of activities we couldn’t do before, which was a boon on long winter nights, and changed life tremendously. Both Eric and I joined the Cubs, which we loved. I was in it until we moved from Sheridan Road. I was a member of the Cub Pack in East Ham High Street, in I think, a Presbyterian Church Hall. I rose to the dizzy heights of Senior Sixer and had some wonderful times with them.
Then my sister Doreen was born. I can’t say I remember it. I suppose it wasn’t of uppermost importance to a ten year-old boy. I can remember being allowed to go in and see mum and she had this baby at the side of her. We loved our little sister and she brought about another change in life for us. Now that there were three of us kids the flat wasn’t big enough for the family, so we moved to 23 Sandyhill Road, Ilford.
It was closer to where dad worked, and we had a whole house to ourselves, with two bedrooms and a box-room upstairs, a largish kitchen, a living room and a front parlour. Mum and dad seemed to like the change and as Ilford was quite an acceptable residential area, it was a step up the ladder for them. Our neighbours were good. Our little sister was growing out of her babyhood. Eric and I were now going to different schools. Eric was at Cleveland Primary School and I was at Loxford Central School. Both were good schools, so it was a happy move for all of us. We were still going on holiday to the Isle of Sheppey. By then, dad had a car, an Austin Seven. Life was very good. Then we had another addition to our family. Little brother Maurice came along. He was a lovely little fellow, and still is.
At fourteen I left school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do because at fourteen you don’t know much. Dad spoke to the chap next door who was an electrician with Ilford Ltd. (Selo films) and he got me a job in the maintenance workshop with the view to taking an apprenticeship as a fitter and turner. I met some good blokes there and made some good friends. There were four or five blokes who used to knock around together, chasing girls and so on. At about 11 years of age I had joined the Boy’s Brigade, which was a semi-military organization. We had drills, gymnasium, and a crowd of us would get together and go out on camps and things of that ilk that I thoroughly enjoyed and rose to the rank of sergeant later on. We’d cycle all over the place, out to Theydon Bois, Epping Forest, Southend, Hainault, etc. A couple of us made small trailers for the back of our bikes and we carried our tents and supplies on those. We had some great weekends like that. I think if you give boys a forest to play in they’ll always enjoy themselves. Eric and I would think nothing of cycling for miles and our parents never worried about us or where we were going. Quite a different kettle of fish these days. At one time we had been given wonderful new bows with a quiver full of arrows, just like Robin Hood’s merry men, we thought, so we had to cycle to “Sherwood Forest” to try them out. We had been cycling for some time when we spotted an old windmill in a meadow that appeared deserted, and decided to investigate. We hid our new bows and arrows in some bushes and spent quite some time playing all over the windmill, before realising that it was getting late and we had better head for home in a hurry. We collected our bikes and hastily made our way back, being rather hungry by then. Arriving back home we suddenly remembered our new bows and arrows, still hidden in the bushes. Dad and mum were not pleased, and somehow or other, we never did get back to retrieve them. I wonder who found them or if they’re still there?
Then came probably the biggest blow of our lives. Maurice was only three; Doreen was five when our beloved mum died. She’d been getting out of breath for some time. We kids didn’t attach much importance to it till she died. Besides having the heart wrenched from the family, we were now in trouble. Dad worked long hours at the shop and had four children to care for; two of them only tots, and shortly afterwards war broke out. Children were being evacuated from London because air raids were imminent. Children as young as our two were being evacuated with their mothers but ours had no mother. Imagine a little girl of five and a little boy of three being taken away to strange people and a strange environment. It was a hell of a wrench for them and for dad. Dad had to keep the business going, look after us and worry about the two little ones in Ipswich. Things didn’t go very well for them so dad bought them home after a while, but raids had started so he decided they should go away again but to another area, and they both went to Devon to a little village called Ufcombe. Doreen went with a Mr. & Mrs. Lake. Mr. Lake was the local policeman. Maurice went to another family - I can’t remember their name now.
By this stage I had left Ilford Ltd. and gone to work at the Ford Motor Company as an apprentice toolmaker. The war had been going on for a couple of years, and in the meantime I had joined the A. R. P. (Air-Raid Precautions). They told me that at my age it was too dangerous to be an air-raid warden so I became a messenger. My job, on the sounding of the siren, was to go straight to the local headquarters, which was in Uphall Road, Ilford on my bike till I was asked to take messages. On the first night the siren sounded, and I got my bike, donned my overalls and tin hat with A. R. P. painted on the front and went straight to HQ. I was told I would have to cycle to and from all the public shelters in the area and report back the number of people using each shelter. By this stage the air raid was going pretty strongly and I had about six to eight shelters around Ilford to ride to and back. There was shrapnel from the anti-aircraft shells, which were being fired at the planes, falling like rain all around, and it was pretty scary!Here was I, on my bike out in it all and the air-raid wardens, who had a job too dangerous for me, were safely tucked up in the shelters!
Anyway, this went on for a while. At one stage I got trapped in a burning laundry just around the corner - it had been an old swimming baths that had been turned into a laundry. I got trapped in there trying to put out a fire caused by incendiary bombs. A chlorine pipe broke and I got a lungful of chlorine. I was treated as a gas patient, and it was a couple of weeks before I could breath properly.
I got a bit weary of all this - it was rather boring. Dunkirk had just happened where the British had been evacuated from France and England was now standing alone and an invasion was imminent, as France was only 14 miles from the coast, and that was where the enemy was. The War Dept. now decided that we needed every man available under arms in England to help the regular army combat the threat of the potential invaders, so a group was formed. It was known as the LDV - Land Defence Volunteers - and it would consist of older men and young people, and I volunteered. My first weapon was a broomstick with a steel spike on the end and a cheese-cutter. I was taught to use the broomstick in “sticking” the enemy, and I was taught how to slip the cheese-cutter over the German’s head, pull it tight and cut his head off, but not to let it fall on the ground as his tin helmet would make a noise when it fell on the concrete!Some units were archery clubs whose weapons were their bows and arrows and other units were shooting clubs whose weapons were double-barrelled shotguns. Other units had no weapons at all, and prayed that some sort of weapons would be provided before long, and eventually they did. America started sending over rifles, machine guns, things of that nature, and older equipment that was no longer used by their forces. I was given a Remington . 300 rifle and a bayonet. Mind you, I’d waited months for this. It fired American ammo, which was . 300. Soon after this we started getting Browning Automatic rifles and Browning light machine guns. We were later issued with British Army battledress uniforms, British Army steel helmets and we started training in an attempt to become a formidable fighting force.
We had two training sessions a week and all weekend for those people who could go. At times we had night manoeuvres, and our area was Fairlop Airfield just outside Ilford. We’d do weekend manoeuvres around Hainault Forest and the green belt outside Ilford. I think after a while we could have done some good. The older men had the wartime knowledge of being regular soldiers with four years experience in the First World War, getting on in years and very keen to do their bit, but not as fast or active as they used to be. The younger chaps, such as myself, were physically fit and keen, and with the training were becoming quite arms-efficient. Lots of funny kinds of weapons were being invented and given to us to try out - far too numerous to start trying to explain!
Of course life at this time had changed tremendously. Anywhere people congregated was closed down because of air raids. Dance halls, picture palaces, theatres were all closed, and life could have been very boring, so we had to make our own entertainment. I had been volunteering for the services, but as I was in a reserve occupation at Ford Motor Company, I wasn’t allowed to be accepted, so I tried desperately to get away from Ford. The government was running schemes for people who had a distance to travel to get to work, to be able to leave their place of employment and find employment closer to their homes and I took advantage of this. I needed two, sometimes three buses to get to work, and the time taken, usually interrupted by air-raid sirens was affecting productivity, so I tried and got a job in my own area with the Plessey Company, a company making radar equipment and Spitfire engine components. The Spitfire was the fighter plane most used by the British Air Force. The Plessey Company had a very good social club, heavily sponsored by the company. We had our own sports ground and clubroom at Perriman’s Farm, Fairlop and we used to congregate there, chaps and girls, and had some very good times. It had a bar - I think we used to make one pint of brown ale last all night, as we didn’t have much money, but plenty of fun. We used to go on outings on coaches. I remember one time we had a boat trip up the Thames up to Chertsea I think. It was a Sunday, lovely day.
Later on, cinemas started opening again. We’d be sitting watching the film when the film would stop, someone would come on stage and tell us that the air raid siren had just started and gave us the choice of going to the shelter just along the road or staying to continue watching the film. We always used to stay. Dance halls opened again and I can remember on one occasion where a crowd of us chaps and girls went to a dance at Barking. The girl I was with lived at Romford, which was some distance away, and incendiary bombs came through the roof of the dance hall, straight through the floor and were burning under the floor. We told the girls to stand in the far corner and we chaps went over to put the fire out with buckets of water and sand. After the fire was extinguished, the band started playing again and we carried on dancing around the damaged section. That was how life was then. Familiarity breeds contempt, and life was too good to waste time wishing it otherwise.
All the time though I wanted to get into the Army or the Air Force - actually the Air Force was my first choice. My pal Vic, who was a printer apprentice (printing wasn’t a reserve occupation) and I volunteered for the Air Force. Vic was allowed to go and I wasn’t. Vic did his training as a Hurricane pilot and on his first operational flight over the Channel he was shot down and killed. This made me very determined to get into the services. The raids by this time were getting to be very bad and people had to go into the shelters three or four times a day, which was really affecting productivity. Just prior to the war a start had been made on building an underground railway from Gant’s Hill just outside Ilford through to London to join up with the London underground. The tunnel had been completed, all the walls had been tiled and the concrete base had been laid ready for the lines when the war started and the building was stopped. It was quite deep underground so it was decided that the part of the Plessey Company that was making aircraft parts would be re-located in the tunnel. I was part of the section that went underground. Imagine what it was like in a long tunnel with machines down either side for about two miles, with artificial lighting and ventilation - nothing but machine after machine after machine in a white-tiled environment, with a long walk to and from your machines. Life became very, very dull and boring, and I was determined to escape into the services.
I went to my doctor and pleaded with him to back me up with a certificate to say the work underground was affecting me detrimentally and could I be released from the reserve list. He did this and I was released from that job. I had to get a job so I went to work for the father of a friend of mine who was a builder working on repairing bomb-damaged houses. The pay was very good. The hours were long and it was pretty dangerous. At times we were working with air raids going on over our heads, but from there I was allowed to join the services. At last!I went to volunteer only to be told that as I was by now almost eighteen years old and my age group was shortly to be called up by the government for war service, so I couldn’t volunteer but had to wait to be called up!
Some six months later I had to go for my medical and was accepted and asked if I had any preference as to the unit I would like to join. I was told they were not accepting recruits into the Air Force now as they had sufficient volunteers at this point. The interviewing officer told me that as a young fellow with some engineering experience I would be best suited in the Royal Engineers which was where I was assigned and four weeks later I received my call up papers, which told me I was joining the Royal Berkshires Infantry!
Anyway, off I went. Of course, I already had a uniform - a Home Guard uniform and I had one stripe - I was a Lance Corporal, and I was told that I had to report in my uniform to Reading Station in Berkshire, the headquarters of the Royal Berkshire Regiment. I journeyed by train to Reading with a lot of other young fellows. I got out of the train at Reading and stood outside the station, in uniform, with a stripe on my sleeve, surrounded by a lot of other young chaps eighteen years of age who kept coming up to me and asking me “Where do we go now Corporal?” thinking that I was a regular soldier. Naturally, I didn’t have a clue. Later some trucks started to arrive with regular men, we all had to jump on the trucks and out we went to Tilehurst Rhanikit Camp just outside Reading, which was where we did our training. We were shown into our huts, which were quite nice with steel telescopic beds about two feet off the floor with straw-filled mattresses and blankets. The following day we were taken back to headquarters in Reading to be given all our kit, but we were given a meal first. They took us into the big canteen. I was one of about 300 to 350 young fellows all from different walks of life, from the country and city, a real mixture. We were sitting there awaiting our meal, me with a stripe on my shoulder, when a regular Army sergeant came up to me and “suggested” I take the stripe off my sleeve or I may find myself in trouble!I did so fast. Our first meal wasn’t too bad and then we started training.
It was to be a ten-week training course and we’d learn infantry weaponry, infantry tactics, field craft, drills, marching, the whole box and dice of army life. We were becoming quite good and were taking assault courses, live round firing, range firing and all manner of things. We found it terrific and were feeling quite competent. We were slowly changing from young kids and becoming soldiers. We were very keen and enthusiastic indeed. I think we would have killed anything on two legs at one stage. Towards the end of our training we were told that we’d be undergoing tests to see what we would be most suitable to do. Among the jobs were normal infantry weapon work, firing, shooting, machine-gunning, bren-gun carrier driving, vehicle driving and mechanics, and signals. I was asked if I’d like to go into the signalling section. I looked at the course outline and decided yes, I would. It was a twelve-week course, which was to be in the camp that I was already in. I liked the area and the camp, and it wasn’t too far from home - Reading was only about 35 miles from London - and I could get home whenever leave was due. I was married then and my wife Peggy could come down and spend the weekend. So that was to be it.
Well, the training unit broke up. We’d been together for ten weeks, living, playing, and soldiering together so had made some very good mates. We had a whacking big party in the camp gymnasium. We were now fit, smart young soldiers, capable with weapons and un-armed combat, but we were sorry to be leaving each other. Some of us stayed behind in the camp. I think the bren-gun teams stayed - there were about ten of us in all who stayed, so it wasn’t so bad. We got a ten-day leave before our signals training began.
The first stage embraces such things as cable-laying, Morse code, which was probably the toughest part of the course, field-telephone operating and maintenance, battlefield switchboard operating, some radio appreciation, not operating, just appreciation, heliograph signalling, signalling with a field-service daylight signalling lamp on a tripod, operated from a Morse code key and general bits and pieces. We started not knowing one letter of Morse code and every day of the week including Sundays we had a Morse code lesson of at least one hour. It became a language to us. If we were going out in the evening we’d be sitting on the bus talking to each other in Morse code - other passengers on the bus used to look at us as if we were crazy. It wasn’t long, perhaps about six weeks, before we were fairly efficient and we were signalling and receiving about six words a minute. A word consists of five letters, so this was 30 letters a minute we were able to signal and read. We had to be proficient at eight words a minute to pass out and believe me this was tough. We found that once we got to six words a minute some of us really started to learn quickly and when I passed out at eight words a minute I was capable of sending twelve words a minute. You can always send quicker than you can read. The lamp signalling requirements were slower. Pass out capability was six words a minute. You could read a lamp, depending on the terrain, four or five miles away, so you sent by lamp to a lamp station, when you knew where it was - they signalled to you to show you where they were and vice versa - and you signalled together, signalling, reading, signalling, reading. Then came the passing out - most of us passed - and to show we were qualified we were given crossed flags, one white, one blue with a white stripe, insignias to sew onto our sleeves down near our cuff on our battledress.
Out of that class of about twenty, four were chosen to do a further course on wireless instruction. I was one of the fortunate four to do another ten weeks in camp doing the wireless operator course where we had to learn faster Morse code, the operation and maintenance of radios - there were three different types of radios used - and this was a specialised course. You had to know how to repair your radios in the field, all radio usage in the field - both speech and Morse code. At the end of that course only three of the chaps who had originally started were still together. Alan Ray, Jack Richardson and me and we were told that we would be transferred to an operational battalion (we had only been in a training unit) on the coast of Suffolk. An invasion was expected and troops were on beach defence.
We were sent to Dunwich, then from Dunwich to Southwold where we spent all that summer. It was beautiful. The beaches weren’t really available to us as all the beaches were heavily mined and barb-wired but part of the beach had been cleared and we could use it for swimming. We had to all go together and before we could go onto the beach it had to be tested for mines. Enemy troops used to land from submarines by night to any part of the beach they thought might not be mined, which they in turn mined and hopped out of it quickly. It was a lovely summer. I had never spent a summer in the countryside and I loved it. Suffolk is a delightful county. Then orders came through that the unit we were in was to be broken up. Three-quarters of our regiment was in the Middle East on the Italian front, and they had suffered huge numbers of casualties - so many that the regiment was no longer viable. It appeared that although we were on beach defence we were supposed to be shipped to the Middle East in a month or so, but as casualties had been so heavy it was decided the regiment was to be disbanded instead. We were asked if we had any preference of unit to which we would like to be transferred. I thought, well, the artillery looks okay so we three applied for a transfer to the artillery. Only trouble was the unit they sent us to was in Ireland!
We greeted this news with a certain amount of trepidation. None of us had an idea what Ireland was like - we knew there was a fair amount of trouble in Ireland and German submarines were pulling into Southern Ireland to replenish food and fuel. Southern Ireland was very anti-British. We were going to Northern Ireland and there was a lot of trouble there. Anyway we journeyed from Suffolk to Ireland. It was a horrible journey. We had to go to London by train. We had to take everything - rifles, 75 rounds of ammunition which weighed a lot, gas mask, packs full of stuff, small pack on our sides, big pack on our backs, three blankets, greatcoat, kitbag - it was a lot of gear to hump around. We journeyed from London to Stranragh in Scotland to get the ferry across to Ireland. The ferry pulled in at Larne, Northern Ireland - from London to Larne took about eighteen hours, so we were pretty tired when we arrived, and after the trip across the Irish Sea we were pretty sick too. Onto another train in Ireland and we travelled for another six hours to a place called Kilkeal, a little fishing village on the north Irish coast north of Belfast. We had joined a new unit, had new weapons. Our guns were 25 pounder field guns. We had never seen artillery guns before and the signalling system was completely different. There were still field telephones and things of that nature but the radios were different, and the methods of using radio were different. The giving of fire orders was something completely foreign to us, so in actual fact, we started another form of training. I spent about ten months in Ireland and I‘ll swear it never stopped raining. We saw a lot of nasty action. The I. R. A. was very active. We used to go to church parade with weapons, carrying about ten rounds of ammunition in our pockets. Tommy-guns were issued then. Some had American Tommy-guns, others had rifles. Even going to the pictures we had to carry weapons - sometimes I left the pictures and forgot my rifle and had to go back and get it!After ten months it was decided that by that time the whole unit (we were not infantrymen, we were artillerymen now) would return to England.
We travelled from Ireland back to Hythe on the Kent coast. Hythe was a lovely place. We were in civilian homes at a place called Saltwood I think, just outside Hythe. We had about a twenty-minute walk into Hythe. I was really lucky. My mate Ted Peat and I had a lovely room in the upstairs of a beautiful country house. Outside the window was a big mulberry tree and we could just reach out and pick the mulberries. There were no civilians there - people were evacuated from the coastal towns when invasion was feared and the homes were taken over by the services to billet the servicemen and Heaven help any man who damaged any of the homes. We did see some damage, but on the whole, not much. Ted and I kept our room tidy and put a few personal bits and pieces round to make it look like home - photos of our wives, etc. and it was very comfortable. Our wives visited us. We couldn’t stay in our billets but had to get accommodation elsewhere. I think we were there three or four months. In that time we were constantly training with weapons, radio and telephone lines and general artillery communications. We were on beach defence against impending invasion, and unbeknown to us were being readied for the Normandy invasion.
Then we were moved to Ramsgate, once again on the Kent coast almost directly opposite the French coast. We were billeted in a big old convent hospital - no patients there - everyone was evacuated. There were a few people around Ramsgate, not many. We were shelled incessantly from the French coast. They had massive 15-inch guns that would fire a shell weighing a quarter of a ton. Our hospital had been hit twice before we got there, but fortunately never while we were there. A lot of places around Ramsgate were damaged. We were tutored on recognition of enemy uniforms and aircraft. Once in the middle of these lectures, some of the chaps who had been into Ramsgate on leave came back saying they’d seen three Free Poles walking around town. They didn’t have very complimentary things to say about their uniforms - horrible colour, etc. At a lecture after this we were confronted by three Army Intelligence people in German Military uniforms - an officer, a corporal and a private, who had been in Ramsgate for three weeks - undetected!There were so many uniforms of different European nationalities legally in Ramsgate that no one had taken any notice of them. Serious - yes, but it gave us a good laugh and a valuable lesson. Along the cliffs at Ramsgate there had once been a dance hall dug into the chalk cliffs. It was called Eastcliff Dance Hall and was quite big. Shortly after we had been dancing there a shell exploded right in the doorway of the dance hall and a lot of service people were killed. We stayed in Ramsgate for probably six months and then we started training in earnest for the invasion of France.
All our vehicles and weapons had to be waterproofed. This was the first time I had seen any plasticised materials. There were rubberised materials in which to wrap our weapons - bren-guns and small arms. Our 25 pounders had to be covered with grease and an asbestos-waterproofing compound. We had to take the vehicles for testing to Hythe. A ramp went down into the sea and we had to drive the vehicles out to a buoy, turn round and come back. Now, if you hadn’t waterproofed your vehicle properly, it stopped, and you were up to your neck in water in a vehicle that wouldn’t go anymore. Everything had to be treated in this fashion. When everything was declared right, we waited for D (Deliverance) Day. We knew it was coming but not when, or how France was to be invaded by the allies, British, Canadians, Poles, and Americans (who, by the way, did NOT win the war single-handedly). Each country had it’s own landing shore. British were on Sword Beach. Our unit didn’t go on D. Day itself, but a few days after. The only troops who went on D Day were the Guards and top regiments. Commando and special service regiments, under-water service regiments all went first. The Guards tank regiments stayed behind and their infantry units went ahead to make the bridgehead. It was vital to establish that first so that the heavier equipment could follow. Sufficient troops had to be left behind to ensure that, had the invasion failed, England was protected against a counter-invasion. When we landed at Sword, Britain was still shelled from France, but fortunately not a lot. In the first few days of the invasion the British, American and Canadian Air Forces more or less cleared the skies of enemy aircraft, especially during the daytime. The Americans didn’t like flying at night, and we were bombed during the night hours by German planes.
My time in action had started. I was only twenty-one, with a wife who had found she was pregnant with Valerie the day we left for France. We were travelling through London in convoy - hundreds and thousands of troops passing through Ilford on our way. I was writing little notes and handing them to people in the crowd asking them to go and see my wife and mother-in-law telling them I had passed through Ilford and I found out later that four or five had gone round to pass the message on. People were throwing gifts, sweets, etc. into the lorries as we passed. We were travelling in a quad, which was the big army vehicle that pulled the 25-pounder gun with a minimum of 60 rounds of ammunition and it had a hatch in the top where the sergeant of the gun team stood. He let me take his place as we went through my home town to pass out my little notes. Trouble was, each time I handed a note to people they’d stuff something in my hand, like a tray of cakes or 100 cigarettes. Honestly, we reached a stage where there was hardly room to move in the quad. They knew where we were going and everyone was trying to give what he or she could. The sense of unity was palpable. We went to Tilbury and embarked on a boat that went right the way around the coast to Portsmouth we think, where we picked up the convoy of about two hundred large ships and hundreds of empty assault craft of various sizes before it turned towards the French coast.
We arrived within about a mile of the French coast. We were to land on Sword Beach, near the township of Douvres. We didn’t know what was going to happen. Then hordes of landing craft appeared. They were carrying troops and equipment from the boats to the beaches. Half a dozen of these pulled alongside our boat. Most of them were tank landing craft, larger than the infantry landing craft and designed to take heavy equipment. Cranes on the boat started to lift the bren-gun carriers that were light-armoured observation vehicles, our guns and our limbers of ammunition - and us. We went down the side of the boat on scramble nets into the landing craft. That, believe me, is not easy. The landing craft and the boat were both bobbing up and down, and so were our hearts and stomachs. We each carried a rifle, a bandolier of 75 rounds of ammunition, a gas mask on our chest, a pack on our side, a bigger pack on our back, tin hat and boots. It was difficult. We finally got down and stowed our gear into the vehicles. Our vehicle was a 30 cwt. signals vehicle - a small truck, and we got underway to the beach. A lot of shells were falling at this stage and we were in rather a hurry to get out of this situation. Time seemed to drag but we finally got to within about fifty yards of the beach. Fortunately it was low tide. The front of the landing craft dropped and we drove off into the water, which would have been almost six feet deep. This is why the vehicles had to be perfectly waterproofed. They had to rev up and shoot down this ramp into the water, pushing the water away from the sides of the vehicle and keep going to the shore. If they stopped, they couldn’t start again.
We were told that we’d be organised as soon as we landed and go into action straightaway. Our infantry had gone in before us - the 2nd-6th South Staffordshire Regiment, the infantry we were to support. They had gone forward before us. We had to get our guns ready for action, and get our observation posts organised, and they had to go up with the infantry. We stayed there at our landing spot taking off all the waterproofing equipment, preparing guns and all our signalling equipment with waterproofing, radios and things of this nature. We had to get into an action stage as quickly as we possibly could. This took fifteen to twenty minutes. The guns were taken forward a couple of hundred yards and put into action mode. The vehicles that towed them came back.
It is essential that the vehicles don’t stay with the guns in case the gun positions are attacked, so the vehicles were taken three or four hundred yards back into a vehicle park. I was to go back with them to set up the radio repair area in the back of a big five ton truck and my job would be to repair damaged radio equipment as quickly as it could be done. I had this job for a couple of days while we were moving forward all the time. When the guns were required to move, they contacted me by radio. I would then contact the commanding officer who would order the trucks forward to the guns. This is how we advanced. As the infantry advanced, so the guns would advance. Although we were in a much safer situation than the forward line, we were still being shelled quite heavily. This situation existed for several days. The enemy is always keen to knock out an observation post and is constantly on the lookout for one. They have radio direction-finding equipment, monitoring broadcasts from infantry to radio posts and from them, with orders for moving guns. I had to go up as a radio operator for the new observation party because the old one had been wiped out. Our party consisted of Captain Tweddle, Monty Banks - Senior NCO, Les Suggett - Bren-Gun Carrier Driver, my assistant Radio Operator Davo and me. The Brengun Carrier is an open-topped tracked vehicle so we became a light-armoured observation post, and up we went with the infantry.
We saw normal action for a few days. No really heavy action for a while until we went into our first night attack. We had lain on a barrage that was to open up at midnight. We went forward on foot carrying our radio equipment with the infantry in case they experienced any difficulties moving forward. I and my assistant operator moved forward carrying the radio on our backs. Davo had it at first and I had just taken it over to give him a rest. We were within 25 yards of the infantry and the enemy was no more than 100 yards ahead of them when we were ordered to move up still closer. I was told afterwards that our infantry were throwing German grenades back at them. That’s how close they were. Davo and I lay behind an apple tree. I’d been carrying the radio for a while and I rolled over to rest the radio on the ground to take the weight off my back and shoulders. I lay like that for about 30 seconds when a shower of mortar bombs came over and landed just behind us on the other side of a low stone wall, about 3 feet high, obviously stones ploughed up by the farmer and formed into a wall around a field.
All of a sudden I felt a thump in my side. I said to my operator “I think I’ve been hit!”It was very dark so I started feeling around, but I couldn’t see a thing. There were tracer bullets coming towards us and ours going towards them. Davo said, “Don’t go feeling around - you might put your hand into a hole in yourself!”Anyway, I felt something wet running down my leg. “Oh God!I have been hit!”Then I thought, “Hang on, blood’s warm, and this is cold.” I kept on feeling around and found that a piece of shrapnel had pierced my water bottle - not me!I kept that water bottle for years at home. Don’t know what became of it eventually. I hate to think of what would have happened if I hadn’t been lying on my side. I guess I would have got it in my back.
We slowly advanced over the next few days with nights where we could even get a decent kip if we could find a dry spot. One incident stands out in my mind. Our group came to a deserted farmhouse somewhere outside the little village of Villers-Bocage. It was a Sunday and we got to thinking about the Sunday roast dinners and being rather fed-up with army rations and longing for something a bit more substantial, decided to look around to see what we could find. Well, we found some vegetables okay and in the farmhouse was a string of onions drying . Then Davo let out a cry of joy. He had found two very small baby goats in a pen behind the house. Obviously they had been forgotten in the hasty evacuation of the farmhouse. A fire was lit in the kitchen range and the kids quickly readied for the spit. That Sunday we dined like kings, especially as a bottle of the farmer’s home-made calvados and a round of beautifully soft camembert cheese was discovered in the cellar. We toasted his thoughtfulness with glee.
Another night some days later we again came to an evacuated farmhouse that had been pretty badly damaged. Obviously other troops had sheltered there before us and had left it quite desolate. Still, one of the rooms was partially habitable - enough for us to get our heads down for the night. We investigated the cellar hoping we might be lucky again, but whatever had been there was no longer. In one corner there was a pile of muddy old hessian bags which I pushed with my boot. There was something solid under it and we pulled aside the old bags to see what was hidden. Under the bags was an old pine chest. We pulled it out and opened it, to find it contained some young girl’s trousseau. There were sheets and pillow shams, embroidered tablecloths, crocheted work and perhaps the most poignant of all, a long white linen nightgown embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds. We stood looking at it feeling very sorry for what must have been heart-breaking to leave behind. Then we carefully replaced the chest under the pile of hessian bags and did what we could to add to its concealment. We all hoped that one day she may return to find her treasures intact.
We came on down past Tours and were moving in a south-easterly direction when we encountered heavy resistance from the retreating forces. They had waited for us. Everything was ranged, plotted - they gave it everything they had. After about a minute of this, something, a mortar bomb or an 88-mm. shell, exploded in the tree above us. The driver, Les Suggett was killed, the Senior NCO, Monty Banks was killed, I suffered multiple gun-shot wounds and shrapnel all over the left side of my body, my assistant didn’t get a scratch, Tommy Tweddle, our officer was peppered somewhat - I don’t know how much, but he lifted me out of the carrier. I couldn’t see, I was blinded, but didn’t know why. Then he told Davo to take me back away from the area where stuff was still falling, to try to find a medical jeep to take me back for treatment. We got onto the road about 100 yards away and we heard tanks but we didn’t know if they were the enemy’s or ours. He laid me down on the side of the road and I think, jumped into the ditch to hide, but I never saw him again! The tanks got closer and closer, but I couldn’t see them. The tank stopped and a couple of chaps got out. Fortunately they were our tanks, and behind the tanks were medical corps jeeps that had been adapted to carry three or four stretchers.
I was racked on a stretcher and taken back with some other chaps to the Forward Emergency Hospital where they operated on me straight away, to remove the bits and pieces that they could get out at the time, and leaving all those that they considered weren’t doing much immediate damage. So ended my experience of action. I don’t regret it. I’m glad I experienced the comradeship, both in training and under danger.
At this point Alf’s taped memoirs ended, when, at 81 years of age, he succumbed to his last battle, dying of leukemia just four months after the initial diagnosis.
LETTER TO A GREAT-GRANDSON
Dear Tom,
Your mother has asked me to tell you something about my swimming days. She tells me you love swimming and I can only recommend it as a great sport in which to be involved. Well, here’s my story.
I started swimming aged around about 7 years of age. In those days there were no swimming lessons for Infants Schools, and dad worked all hours, as shops traded till 9 p. m. and all day Saturday. The only swimming we did was during dad's one week's summer holidays.
I won my first race at 10 years of age in the under 14's backstroke. Dad then paid for a professional trainer for me. I had one lesson per week and went to the pool about one and a half miles from where we lived, walking both ways two or three times a week, summer and winter. The pools were indoors and heated. During winter we walked through snow after school for our swims.
I won my next big race at 12 years of age, which was with the Essex Boys Brigade, open to all ages up to 15 years. My next success was the Essex schools backstroke championship for under 14's. I got second place.
At 13 I started playing water polo in the under 18 team. I wasn't strong enough for the first team but trained with them. At 15 I was playing with the first team and at one time played the Danish team and we won. I scored two goals! At 14 I was a member of two clubs - the Ilford Swimming Club and the Athenian Club and had monthly races where points won went to the club and were assessed at the end of the year.
I later swam and played water polo for the Ford Motor Company, but my proudest moment was winning the Essex Schoolboy backstroke 100 yards after three attempts. All of this time I was training alongside our club swimmers for the 1940 Olympic Games, but then war broke out and all pools were closed as they all had glass roofs and heavy bombing was expected. The Olympic Games was cancelled that year because of the war, so my chance was lost.
I joined the army at 18 years of age and had very little chance to swim, but I played rugby in the army and enjoyed that very much. As you know I was wounded and could not play rugby then, but after my discharge I went back to swimming and water polo for Ford. By then I had married and had two children; your Grandma Val and Uncle Dennis to teach and took them swimming a couple of times a week. Dennis won his first race at three and a half against other kids his age.
In later life I became a scout leader and started to train some of the boys in speed swimming. When I thought they were good enough they entered the scouts championship race. I knew they would not win but it gave them the opportunity to compete, which helped with their confidence. I didn't know but they craftily entered me in the scout leaders race and didn't tell me until a week before the race. I hadn't raced for years but I had to try for them. On the night I stood on the starting blocks at nearly 50 years of age to swim against young people aged between 16 - 20 years old. Your mum was about 4 years old then and she ran along side the pool shouting "Come on Grangrad" - and I won! That was really a proud moment.
I played water-polo until I played against a team that Uncle Dennis was playing for and decided it was about time I stopped. Marnie and I swam each week up to the time my emphysema worsened.
Keep training Tom. I would have loved to swim with you but can only wish these days.
Lots of love. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Great-Grandad
MY GRANDMOTHER, AMELIA SKIGGS
Amelia Skiggs (or Skeggs) was born in 1873 in Bethnal Green, London. Her father was a 'carman' from Essex, and her mother a 'charwoman'.
We entered the back door through the scullery with its gleaming copper and large sandstone sink. Beyond, in the kitchen stood a large scrubbed deal table and the giant black kitchener that produced the only warmth in the house. Certainly there was none in the heart of the woman who dwelt here.
Amelia Skiggs sat on a high-backed wooden chair by the coal-fired kitchener. Her iron-grey hair was pulled back and fastened in a tight knot behind her head, and over it she wore a man's cloth cap. Her no-nonsense black dress was covered by a stiff hessian apron. She took the clay pipe from her mouth and propped it on the baize covered mantle. "You're here then, Lizzie. Expected you an hour ago. " Then scowling at Eric and me, she said, "Sit over in the corner there, and mind you don't not touch nuffink. " We did as we were bid, not daring to look sideways, and tried to become invisible. "Mr. Barratt will be here shortly. Lift that kettle on, Lizzie. "
Mr. Barratt was her friend. He lived down the road with his two sons. He was a big man with a huge moustache. We never saw him without his bowler hat and he always blew his nose on a large red handkerchief, which he wiped over the moustache after he sipped his tea.
When the tea was made we were each given a slice of caraway-seed cake which we hated but did not dare to refuse. The kitchen was smoky and smelled of bacon-fat and haddock. I can't ever remember seeing my grandmother smile.
My grandfather died before I was born, and I used to wonder if he had died on purpose to escape her presence or was he, like her, so naturally sour that they were destined to share their miserable existence? I remember nothing more of her.
HOLIDAY AT SEASALTER
When I was seven the family had its first camping holiday. Dad had only one week's holiday each year and decided that this year, 1930, we would go camping at Seasalter, a small village on the coast of Kent near Whitstable at the mouth of the Thames. I don't know why he decided it was a good place to camp. Perhaps he had heard about it at the shop from one of his acquaintances, I don't know, but Seasalter it was. Mum had never been camping so it was as new to her as it was to us. Mind you, not many people we knew, living in the middle of London, had camping experience either. We were considered either very lucky or a bit radical to be able to even think of it.
Dad owned an AJS 350cc motor-cycle with a sidecar. He had added a small metal armchair seat, which was bolted to the pillion seat, and a rack on the back of the sidecar. A large suitcase packed with cooking equipment and spare clothing was strapped to the rack. I got to ride in the "chair" behind dad, and mum rode in the sidecar holding Eric, the pair of them wedged in with blankets and anything left over from the suitcase.
We set off on our journey towards Woolwich where we crossed the Thames by car ferry, which was big enough to hold about 250 cars. On the road to Whitstable we drove through pretty country with many orchards, hop-fields and forests. Dad gave instructions we were to keep our eyes open for fields of freshly mown hay. We wondered why, but didn't question.
On reaching Seasalter dad slowed and pulled up on a large grass verge by the road opposite the beach. Behind us was a grassy hill by which ran a small stream. Here we unpacked the bike and from the suitcase came what was to be our home for the next week. There was one small pup tent for Eric and me and a slightly larger one for mum and dad. We pitched the tents and dad dug a trench around them to channel away any water. Mum was left to unpack the rest of the "luggage" while dad and I returned the way we had come on the bike to the nearest field of fresh hay. This was stuffed into the sidecar, till dad judged there to be enough for the purpose. Fresh eggs and milk were bought from the farmer, then back to the campsite. The hay was arranged inside the tents, and covered by blankets to become our beds.
Mum had been busy setting up her "kitchen" which consisted of two small methylated spirit burners, a frying pan, two small saucepans, a kettle and teapot, enamel plates and mugs and some cutlery. No fires were allowed, but she still managed to produce full meals on what would now be considered very dangerous equipment.
Few people camped then, but there were two small cabins on the beach, each of two rooms, with no kitchens or bathrooms. After all, we had the whole sea to bathe in. The Walkers and their son Peter occupied one cabin and the Goods and their son Johnny the other. Both Peter and Johnny were about my own age and we were the best of chums for that glorious week. Mr. Good had made a raft about 6 feet square with straight sides that had been sealed with tar. It was tied by a long rope to a secure post in the beach and it became on one day a Spanish galleon, the next an Indian canoe, and still the next a battleship. We whooped and hollered and slid down the grassy slope of the hill and came back to the camp ravenously hungry. We went to bed and rose with the sun.
There were no lavatories of course. We just "went" behind the tents, which was easy enough for us boys. I wasn't aware of any problem. I can't imagine how the women managed. Any supplies needed were purchased either from the farm or in Whitstable. We wore khaki shirts and shorts and plimsolls every day. I don't recall if we had changes of clothing or if we wore the same ones all week! It really didn't matter to us.
Dad's mate "Uncle" Gordon came for a couple of days to stay with us. He was a great favourite and was always providing us with special treats. He and dad were motorcycle fanatics and he also brought his own pup tent. One day we all went to the Regatta at Herne Bay. What a great day! Here was yachting, swimming, diving and rowing races all started off by a small cannon, with bi-planes, Tiger Moths I think, flying past overhead.
Dad had to go home to work for the Saturday so left the rest of us alone on Saturday night, and was to return Sunday morning. That night there was a terrible thunderstorm and the rain poured down in sheets. We were all scared stiff, and behind us a haystack combusted which was eerie and left us all shaking. Fortunately, both Mr. Good and Mr. Walker came to our rescue and we spent the rest of the night in the cabins. Rather a dramatic end to our adventure.
On the way home, dad decided he would go via Croydon and take the road past the Crystal Palace to the Woolwich ferry. We could see it from the road shining and brilliant in the sun. We pulled over and mum unpacked the kettle, teapot, burner and mugs and made a nice cup of tea while we sat and marvelled at the sight, before resuming our journey home.
AIR RAID MESSENGER
In 1940 after the evacuation at Dunkirk, people in Britain experienced a huge rush of patriotism, and I was no exception. I was seventeen and working as a tool-making apprentice at Ford Dagenham, having left school at fourteen as was the custom then. I considered myself a man and therefore went to sign up as a volunteer with the Land Defence Volunteers which had just been formed. This group was later to undergo a change of name and become the Home Guard. I was told "Sorry son, you're too young - try the ARP".
This was a disappointment, but being an Air Raid Warden would be all right I thought, so off I went to join up. "Sorry son, you're too young. " My heart dropped into my boots. "'ang on, p'raps you can make yourself useful. I think HQ is lookin' for messenger boys. Got a bike? Good. Go over to Uphall Road and tell 'em I sent cha. " Oh well, if that was to be my war effort, so be it. At HQ I was issued a tin hat, gas mask and whistle and instructed to report there whenever the siren went.
My life from then on five days a week consisted of working my job during the day, go home, clean up, have tea in one heck of a hurry in case the siren went when I had just started eating, and I was sure Jerry was watching to see when that was, then wait for the siren. As soon as it sounded, I would grab my tin hat, gas mask, whistle and bike and I would be off like the wind to HQ to report in. I was sent to each public air raid shelter within a 3-4 mile radius during the raid to count the number of people using that shelter, back to HQ to report the number, then off to the next. I pedalled like mad and tried not to think of the thousands of shells being fired by the anti-aircraft guns, which exploded in mid-air in an attempt to hit enemy aircraft with flying shrapnel. Of course all this shrapnel only added to the incendiary bombs descending from the aircraft. I have never understood why this job was considered "safer for a young'un" than the hazards of shepherding people into air-raid shelters. My father served as a fire-spotter and spent the air raids perched anywhere high, such as church steeples, where he was able to direct help to incendiary bomb hits.
One night I had just left the Methodist Church crypt in Ilford Lane and was hastily speeding back to HQ when suddenly I heard the dreaded sound of a loud whirring bee in a fast descending spiral and WHAM! I felt a mighty thump and was thrown bodily off my bike landing heavily on the pavement. The nose-cone from an antiaircraft shell had hit the forks and rear wheel of my bike, just missing my back by a whisker. I stood and gaped at the mangled remains of the bike, until brought suddenly back to reality by sounds of more shrapnel landing nearby. "Crikey, that was close", I thought, and grabbed what was left of my bike to run, hauling it after me till I reached the safety of HQ.
"Well, well, well, what's ‘appened ‘ere lad?" was the greeting. With relief I waited for him to say I had better stay in the shelter for the night, as I was now without transport. He turned around and shouted out "'Ey Jack, 'ave we a spare bike for this lad? 'E appears to 'ave bent 'is and there's still three more shelters to go!"
LIZZIE JUDD’S STORY
Lizzie Judd was born in East Ham, London in 1899. She was baptised Elizabeth Louisa Judd, but no one had ever called her Elizabeth. In her daydreams she was always called Elizabeth Louisa, but it never happened in real life. She was named for her mother’s sister, who was also known as Lizzie. “Elizabeth” was not really accepted in the East end of London. Perfectly respectable for listing on the birth registry, but a bit too posh for everyday life. Lizzie was the eldest of three girls. Her younger sisters were Gladys and Winifred and life was good at first.
Then, when Lizzie was twelve, her adored mother died and suddenly her world was thrown into a frightening, lonely existence, with no explanation for the sudden change, and her younger siblings turned to her for comfort and re-assurance, which she didn’t know how to provide. Time passed with comings and goings of strangers and relatives in the house, until one day her father told them that a new mother was coming into the house to look after them all. Her new mother was a Mrs. Munday. Lizzie’s heart sank. Mrs. Munday was one of the strangers who had frequented the house of late, and Lizzie and her sisters had been rather afraid of the silent, dour woman who had brushed past them and coldly inspected the house on her first visit.
Lizzie’s forebodings proved to be correct. Mrs. Munday moved in with her two sons, Walter and Alfred and from that time life became quite unbearable. Lizzie hated the woman and the feeling was returned ten-fold. Her stepmother became tyrannical in her treatment of the girls and, as Lizzie was the eldest of the three, she was the chief target of the woman’s bitterness and recriminations. Poor Lizzie did her best to shield her sisters, but in so doing, attracted more than her share of anguish and unhappiness. She got no sympathy from stepbrother Walter, but young Alf treated her kindly and tried in his own way to give her support, but was not able to divert the ill-treatment she suffered.
It was with great relief when she turned fourteen she was able to move out of the family home to go into domestic service. She worked long hours for little pay but her mistress was kind, although she caught the master watching her often while she was about her work, to the extent that she felt uncertain of his intentions, and was relieved to leave her post when the opportunity arose for her to learn nursing. Not long after this she became very ill with rheumatic fever, during the course of which she lost all of her beautiful long, auburn hair. Her illness and convalescence lasted for about a year, making it impossible to continue her nursing.
When she had recovered sufficiently, Lizzie went to work for her Auntie Lizzie, her mother’s sister, for whom she had been named. Her husband, Uncle Amos, was a master carpenter who had lovingly made most of his own tools, which were kept in a large chest. Uncle Amos had lost the sight in one eye and was going blind. Her aunt told her that he had been walking down the road one day when an old coal-fed steamroller had passed and a spark had flown out of the chimney into his eye, causing a cataract which had spread, in time, to the other eye. Of course he was unable to continue with his trade, and spent much of his time sitting in the armchair, not joining the conversation much because he couldn’t see, and so tended to fade into the background, but occasionally made a very profound comment, then lapse back into his usual silence. Here Lizzie was shown the kindness she had so sorely missed since her own dear mother had died. Auntie Lizzie ran a laundry. They lived in Wakefield Street, opposite East Ham market, and Lizzie started to work for her aunt as a laundry assistant, where she learned how to iron the stiff, starched collars and ruffs, which were the fashion of the day. There were dozens of different shapes and sizes of irons, which were heated on the gas heater, and Lizzie became quite adept at judging which iron could be used to best advantage for each garment.
It was during her time in the laundry that she fell in love and was courted by a young man who enlisted in the army during the First World War. Lizzie’s heart was broken when he lost his life in France and never returned to her. Some time later she met another young man who renewed her interest in life. His name was Alfred, or Alfie as he was known, and they began walking out together. Alfie was two and a half years her junior, a quiet, hard working lad, and Lizzie grew to love him dearly. Occasionally they would go to see a silent film, but mostly they just walked together down the streets or in the park Some evenings when they were going for their usual walk they told of seeing the German zeppelins flying overhead, caught in the searchlights, on bombing missions over England.
On the 18th of June 1922, Alfie and his Lizzie were married at the Parish Church in Little Ilford, Essex. Lizzie Judd was now Mrs. Alfred Charles Syrett.
MEMORIES OF ALF - BY MOLE AND SHIRLEY
It's not until you have lost someone that you love [as my BIG brother would say], like what we have done, that the memories start coming back. It seems sometimes that I have spent most of my life saying goodbye to my big bruvver, but the times we spent together I enjoyed, [and I think he did to]. I think we said we loved one another enough times. The earliest memories I have was when I must have been about 3 years old, yes, that’s about 66 years ago. I remember we were on holiday at Leysdown where we spent most of our holidays; it was a camping site at the back of Smiths tearooms. We would hire a bell tent and have great times. Things would be normal then because Mum would have still been alive. Smithies, as we called it, was made up of about a dozen tents, the tea rooms and his house, the village had about two shops and a pub, something like those places we went through when we were in Tassie. The thing I remember about that holiday [as if it were yesterday] I was on the beach with my big bruvvers, Alf about 15, Eric about 13 and me, 3. There was a derelict building just back off the beach, and we went exploring. Up on the first floor we were looking out of the window, and saw what I think was a fisherman walking towards the building. My two lovely bruvvers decided to have some fun, and told me he was coming to get me, and then they did a runner. I love my bruvvers.
Life is a bit of a blur from then, mum died, although I don't remember that, dad got married again, I do remember that, the war came and we were all split up again for years. It was after the war that I had to rely on my big bruv more and more, and he was always there to help. My most vivid memory is when Alf made a fort for me to play with. I had some toy soldiers but no fort or castle for them to live in; big bruv came to the rescue. At the time, just after the war, there was lots of building work going on and Alf had a job as a chippie on a site. 'I will make you one' he said, and he did, and it was lovely. The only drawback was it was made of concrete and weighed a ton. How he got it home I never found out, but I was never able to move it, and I think it was finally given to the government to use as a fallout shelter. Another time he made me a pair of starting blocks, when I was doing a lot of running. These weighed nearly as much as the fort, and after carrying them to the competition I was knackered. I think they were made out of an old bed frame but they did the job.
I can remember going fishing with my big bruv. One day. I was telling him about some of the lads at my school had broken into a warehouse and pinched some boxes of tinned corned beef, during their getaway they were chased by the night watchman and had to dump their swag. They dumped it in a bomb crater at the end of Loxford Lane not far from where Alf Peggy and the kids lived, by our dad’s allotment. The crater was full of water, but as most food was still rationed big bruv decided to go and fish it out and take it home. I can't remember how we got it out, but we did and all the family lived on corned beef for a few weeks.
I hope by reading this little note you realise I loved my Big Brother and had a lot of respect for him, life would have been a lot harder for me when I was young if it hadn't been for him. I could always go to him for help and he never let me down. Although I never saw much of him for the last 50 years I WILL miss him, and I will still love him, but I won't have to say goodbye anymore.
Mo, and from me Shirley. xx
One memory I have vividly of Alf - the night before Mo and I got married his two big brothers took him out for a 'stag night'. Mo has never been a drinker or even went in pubs, but went along with them. I think they all got the worse for wear, Alf so much so that he was having a job walking, and asked if he could borrow his dad's bike to get home. Dad agreed and told him to take care of it. He did, when he finally wobbled home, tho' being a bit sloshed, he insisted on looking after said bike and put it for safety in the bath. It seems he was walking around indoors clad only in shoes, socks and pipe putting the bike away. I was told next morning.
THE ISLE OF SHEPPEY
Our holidays at Sea Salter lasted until about 1930. Around about 1929 dad changed his AJS motorbike for a Royal Enfield motorbike and twin sidecar, 750 h. p. The twin sidecar would hold two adults or one adult and two children. It even had ashtrays in the sidecar and was extremely comfortable, and we used to go for miles in it on weekends. On the handlebars were great fur-lined muffs you could put your hands into - all mod. cons. We were still the only people in the area with a vehicle. In 1931 dad found what he considered to be the ideal holiday resort. I use the term resort very loosely.
The place was the Isle of Sheppey at the mouth of the Thames. It had been used back in the dim past by the Vikings as a camp on their invasions of Britain. A nice island, like the coast of Kent, and on it a small village by the name of Leysdown. Smudger Smith had started what he called a holiday camp there, that he had set up at the back of Smith's tea-rooms. He had bought a number of ex-army Bell tents and put down concrete bases for the tents. He provided all cooking utensils, cutlery, crockery, cooking and heating stoves, iron beds with wire-sprung bases, mattresses filled with straw and blankets. The only things you had to take were food and sheets if you needed them. All this for 30 shillings a week for four people! Of course it doesn’t sound much today, but some men only earned that amount in a week. It was almost on the foreshore, the tents were sited in two rows of six in each row, with a small shed to one side which contained two toilets - ladies and gents. The proprietor himself emptied the toilet pans daily and he also arranged sporting events with sweets and small toys as prizes for the winning children. This was luxury camping in those times.
Dad became very friendly with Mr. Smith over the years. He had a young son named Arthur whom everybody called "Arga Biff" as this is what he called himself. He had a little sister named Shirley. After our first trip to Leysdown we thought we’d found Heaven. The village itself was one main road which ran down to the beach, probably a quarter of a mile long, with an intersection about half-way. At the intersection there was a bit of a forest on one corner which was an ideal playground. There was one shop, a general store, which sold everything, including our favourite - big Victoria plums which sold for about 20 for a penny. They were the juiciest, most luscious fruit we had ever tasted.
About a quarter of a mile along the beach were some clay cliffs. This area was known as Warden Point. I was the oldest in the group of kids who played together. I was eight, but even for me it was quite a trek along to Warden Point, but we’d all hike along there and climb the cliffs. They were our Everest - massive cliffs - must have been 100 feet at least! We'd pretend to be mountaineers and rope ourselves together when climbing. Of course the rope wasn't attached to anything other than us and I shudder to think what might have happened had any of us lost his footing on that perilous climb, but we never did. Then we’d trudge all the way back to camp dead tired and happy as Larry.
The things I remember most were the cliffs, the little forest and millions and millions of cockles. You waited for the tide to go out, then waded out onto the mud flats where we dug with our spades and unearthed dozens of cockles. We filled our buckets, took them back to camp and washed them in clean water (Mr. Smith had installed a tap for the campers’ use), and mum would cook them. The only cockles we’d had previously had been bought at places like Southend where you’d pay as much as tuppence for a saucepan full and it was never enough. Here we had an endless supply! Heaven! And of course the plums.
We went to Leysdown every year for some time after. My little brother Maurice remembers the time when he was only about three years old, so I must have been about fifteen and Eric thirteen. This would have been our last holiday at Leysdown before our mum died, and Doreen would have been about five then. There was a derelict building just back off the beach, and we boys went exploring. Up on the first floor we were looking out the window and saw what I think was a fisherman walking towards the building. Eric and I decided to have some fun at Maurice's expense and told him the man was coming to get him, and then we did a runner. The poor little blighter was terrified. Sorry Mole.
In 1932 dad decided to sample luxury living. He bought a car - an Austin 7. A small 7 horsepower box on wheels. We were really living the high life. Not only did we have our holidays at a beach resort, but now we had a car! Whatever next?
UNCLE WAG
Wag Austin wiped the sweat and black coal-dust from his forehead with a muscular forearm. He was the foreman of a gang of six similarly blackened men who had just finished a shift shovelling coal into bags from the railway truck. Their throats were parched and ready for that first ale at The Hope. As he made his way down Ilford High Street his cheerful face and wide smile greeted familiar faces. Old Charlie, the newspaper seller who was crippled with arthritis, often received a quiet handout from Wag, and his dog was powdered with coal-dust from the friendly patting. Even the copper on his beat exchanged some jovial banter with Wag and his brother One-eyed Johnny. At the Hope the congeniality continued while Wag covertly conducted a few small matters of business with the landlord and picked up on some local gossip and doings before heading home for his clean up.
Wag's wife Dolly, my father's baby sister, was filling the tin bath from the kettle as he walked into the kitchen. Dolly adored Wag, and would have followed him to the end of the earth had he wanted. Once he had eased his big frame into the tub she set to work scrubbing him clean. Slowly from the grime emerged a dark-skinned, weather-beaten figure with huge hands, a broad nose and cauliflower ears, which told of past street skirmishes. A long dull scar down his right cheek to the jaw line had earned him a reputation he didn't discourage. Only One-eyed Johnny knew the true cause was an accidental childhood fall with a broken milk bottle.
When rid of the grime, he dressed again in his navy serge suit, a spotless white collarless shirt and carefully tied, clean stook around his neck, donned his cloth cap and departed once more for the Hope. Nobody ever mentioned the words "black market" in Wag's hearing. He was just someone who had contacts and was able to provide commodities wot was needed here 'n there - who liked to 'elp his fellow man if he could - for a price. Having said this, it must be told that some who were in genuine need found a soft touch in Wag, which was also well known, and the reason the local bobbies tended to go blind periodically.
After his evening's business was concluded, he would make his way home to bed, where Dolly had placed his tea, a plate piled high with the evening meal and covered with another plate, beside the bed with a milk bottle of water. He would fall into bed and sleep until the early hours of the morning, when he awakened, hungry, sat up and ate his cold meal washed down with the water, and if he needed more, Dolly would be woken and sent to fetch it.
Life with Wag was full of the unexpected. He was a law unto himself. Many times Dolly was faced with having to cope with surprises. She could tell of the night she had retired to bed only to be woken in the early hours of the morning by the sounds of an unusual racket on the stairs. It sounded like – a horse? – no, it couldn’t be, on their narrow stairs. Then Wag appeared at the bedroom door leading a large, black goat on a rope halter. With great panache he presented Dolly with the goat, as though it should be regarded with as much joy and enthusiasm as if he had given her a sable coat instead of a sable goat. Dolly was perplexed to say the least. Having formally presented his gift, Wag undressed and fell into bed and was soon sleeping peacefully, leaving Dolly to figure out what to do with the goat, which was glaring at her through the foot of the bed.
On another occasion, Wag and his gang of six workmates appeared manhandling a large player-piano through the front door and into the narrow hall. With many colourful suggestions, it was decided that the player-piano should be installed in pride of place in the front parlour, but as the doorway to the parlour was adjacent to the front door, it was unclear how to turn the object at an acute enough angle to actually achieve this end. They tried turning it up on end, but alas, it was much higher than the doorway. It was at this juncture that Wag suddenly realised he didn’t know how it sounded, so all action ceased while he tested the keyboard – vertically. When he was satisfied enough to call a resumption of activities, once more the hefty six renewed their efforts. Eventually the piano was manipulated through the doorway and lowered to the floor. Dolly decided she wanted it against the far wall, so with another Herculean effort, the gang pushed mightily until they reached a weakened board in the centre of the room. Suddenly there came an almighty crash and a stunned silence. The heavy castors under the piano had broken clean through the floorboards and the piano was now wedged at an angle in the centre of the room. There came a period of choice language from Wag and the gang, whereby it was decided that here it should remain, and it did, forever after.
Wag and Dolly had only one child, a daughter, Jean who was cherished by Wag, as no child before or since. He found it very hard to put voice to his love of his precious, small daughter, so demonstrated how much he cared by becoming overly protective of her. When Jean grew to bloom into a beauty in her teenage years, no local lad was game to approach her, fearing Wag’s wrath if he should even glance Jean’s way. Then, tragedy struck. Jean became very ill with a debilitating disease and for a long time was confined to her bed. Slowly she recuperated, but spent most of her time in the garden lying on a long, wheeled chaise. Some of her friends came to visit while Wag was away at work, and Dolly encouraged their visits. She could see how much benefit Jean derived from their contact. One lad, Ron, was quite smitten with Jean and visited often. He told Jean of places and events in the neighbourhood that made her yearn to escape the confines of the garden, so one day with Dolly’s connivance, Ron wheeled Jean to the park on her chaise for the afternoon. She enjoyed the outing so much that soon it became a regular occurrence, but always care was taken to be back home well before the time of Wag’s expected appearance. It had to happen sooner or later. Wag heard a whisper about a certain young man who was seeing his daughter and stormed off from the coal-yard determined to do damage to this young pup. He rounded the corner into their street just as Ron was wheeling Jean towards home. Wag stopped abruptly to watch the happiness on the face of his angel that had been missing for so long, and heard the laughter between the two young people. He saw the gentle attention being paid to her, and his gruff heart thawed He walked towards them. Jean and Ron saw him approaching and both were terrified of what was to come. “Son”, said Wag, “any young man who has the guts to do what you’ve done deserves my respect, and you’ll be welcome in my house anytime. ” Ron continued to see Jean and some time later walked her down the aisle with Wag’s blessing.
We all loved Uncle Wag. His real name was Charles, but I wouldn't tell you that if he was still living.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO TWO GREAT AUSTRALIANS
To the Chinese 2003 might be the Year of the Goat but to us Australians it marks the 80th anniversary of two great Australian icons:
VEGEMITE AND ALF SYRETT
Yes, that old favourite, Vegemite is an octogenarian. For eighty years it has been helping millions of Australians, young and old, lead a happy, healthy and active life.
In stark contrast, that other salty old Australian, Alf Syrett, has defied all temptations to lead a healthy existence and miraculously has survived to reach 80. (I guess there is a link to the (old) Goat after all)
Having baffled medical science, no one can quite explain how he did it, but the sheer wonder of the fact shouldn’t go un-noticed. So, to celebrate what surely must be the eighth wonder of the world, we have planned a surprise party for the old warhorse in his beloved Hobart on
Saturday 15 March.
The plot is for a cruise to be held on the equally aged and outdated Cartella, boarding at Brooke Street pier, travelling to the Casino then cruising the Derwent till about 11pm.
Marion is to lure Dad to a fictitious 7. 30 dinner with friends at the Casino. She will then lure him down to the Casino wharf to watch the Cartella come in (generally speaking Marion is able to lure him into anything). All things being successfully we will then pop up like Blue Beards pirates and spring the surprise.
The two problems here are for Marion to get Dad to actually WALK down to the wharf, and for us to spring the trap without him croaking on us. The walking will be a problem but I think the other is ok. Dad has never been one to miss out on an opportunity to be the centre of attention, so I’d say he’ll stay around.
Towards the end of the cruise, the Cartella will return to the Casino and the cruise will finish at Brooke Street. You can plan to board at either place. If you do decide to board at the Casino please be aware of the need to stay out of sight until his Lordship is on board.
The cruise will feature a sumptuous meal and entertainer at a cost of $36 per head. Some beer, wines and soft drinks will be supplied with a full range of drinks available at bar prices.
We have a couple of surprises in store, a high-ranking British military hero, no not Dad, another one, and some nostalgic bits and pieces. It promises to be a fabulous night.
Gifts are not an issue as your gift to Dad will be your being there.
Because of the constant scrutiny under which Marion lives, you’ll have to communicate with me and I’ll keep Marion updated, in code. Please let me know by 1/3/03 if you will be attending.
More importantly, please let me know where you will be boarding, Brooke Street at 7pm or the Casino 7. 30, that will help us to ensure that everyone is aboard.
Please contact me on: [e-mail address, telephone numbers and address omitted].
Looking forward to seeing you aboard
Dennis Syrett