Roger Stanley's Story |
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Where I was evacuated - 30 miles west of London - Knowl Hill, we could see the red glow of the bombing in London. At that time, I wasn't even aware that I came from London. I was just THAT evacuee kid. If anything was damaged in the village, it was THAT evacuee kid. Fires, broken windows, even damaged birds' nests - has to be that evacuee kid. Despite all that, the person who looked after me was very supportive and looked after me, defending me against the prejudice that was there.
I only saw and heard ONE V1 rocket. Waiting for someone I heard the noise that almost a gurgle, throaty noise, like a car with a broken muffler, looked up, saw it; felt a tingle in my coccyx and yelled out, "keep going. Please keep going!" The motor stopped, and I dived into some bushes. Couple of minutes later I heard the explosion. It blew up in a field at a place called Crazies Hill. Quite appropriate name I reckon. Weeks later, at night, hiding under the stairs after the siren went, I heard the shrill screaming of incendiary bombs (I was told that later), they landed again without damage in fields at a farm near White Waltham. The only other bomb, which landed near us, did not explode. It was a big 500 lb. bomb. It was reputed to have a message from Adolph, saying this was a warning.
We had British and American troops stationed near us at Kiln Green barracks. We always asked the "YANKS" - "got any gum, chum." Never realized that few of them would still be alive in just a couple of months.
I am a confirmed pacifist now and hope that my children grow up that way.
Better nick orf nah. Roger Stanley aka Yates - Dinsdale- Scanlon.
I now live SE of Melbourne, Australia (Not Florida)on Western Port Bay. This is a quiet coastal village, with just a few shops. Nearest town is Hastings (Not 1066 and all that) I retired from work 1995 and started a small hire car business. Weddings-vineyard tours-tourist related activities. Now need EIGHT days a week to do everything I want to do.
One clear memory about returning to London after the war was the change of food; this may have been a contributing factor in my running away back to Knowl hill. My mother (stranger) and the rest of this unknown family seemed to cook everything in a big fry pan - whatever it was. The only exception was -"IFFIT". This was made in a large pot, smelt terrific and was served to each in a pudding basin with a spoon; s almost everyday. When I first questioned its name I was advised that, t IF IT had mea in it, it would be Irish stew!! It was chicken stock, barley, red and green lentils, onions, carrots and lots of potatoes, pepper and salt and eaten with Matzos dipped or crumbled into it. Roger the Dodger
I recall the label and the gas mask (well a little box on string) and joining a group of other children and adults: it was 5 days before my fifth birthday and the sun shone. There is no recollection of the journey or the selection by the Page Family of Bottle Lane, Knowl Hill, Berkshire. I clearly remember the days in the Warner Memorial Village Hall where we had been segregated from the local school. We had to tell the teachers who came from London, what we had been given to eat.
Although I don't have a memory of my replies at the time, years later I was told that I said, that all I had to eat was "Spuds and Oxo." I was sent to another billet with evacuees who knew me. I had no idea who they were, but some months later I understood that they had lived near me in Bayswater W.2. Jimmy, Violet and Betty Edwards and they were many years older than I. I think we all slept in one gigantic bed.
When they asked what we had to eat at the new place, I said, "Lots of bread and eggs and bread and milk in a cup, sprinkled with sugar". Some months later, my "Gran" as I called her told me to tell them to, "Mind your own business". They never asked again.
I remember one visit only from my mother (who is this lady?) during the war and she brought along a box of clothes. I can still see the pair of shiny, clear plastic sandals and said, "I'm not a girl." And refused to wear them. Somebody bought me a pair of boots, to - "Keep his tiny ankles from breaking!"
I have no idea how much time had passed, but soon, there were only three of us evacuees left in the village. There was a bus service from London to Reading, Berks. This was a double-decker and trailed behind it this gigantic box thing with bellows. This was the GAS fuel bag. It seemed quite natural to me that buses would go to and from London where the WAR was. I wondered later who would have used the bus and why didn't they get bombed.
I lay on my back watching the vapour trails of the dogfights and wonder even to this day, what happened to those thousands of bullets fired by the planes. Did they fall and hurt anybody? I wanted one of those tin hats just in case one came near me.
When we were allowed to mix with the local kids at the primary school, we were definitely ostracized. We had to have our afternoon "nap" in a different room, with separate mattresses on the floor. At lunch time, we had to show our sandwiches and drinks to the teacher.
I will always be grateful to the local vicar C of E: Rev. Basil F L Clarke who chose me to take a part in all the little plays he wrote for the school. I remember some of the lines even now. I sang and whistled on stage and played a ghost among other things. I was chosen to sing solo in the choir at Xmas. Did he know I was evacuated as a Jewish boy from a Shul in Bayswater? He was so good for my self-esteem at that critical time.
There was no electricity, or gas in Gran's house so we used paraffin oil lamps and cooked with the well-polished oven. Gran made wine: elderberry; dandelion; parsnip; and marrow & ginger. Large brown earthenware bowls covered in muslin, bubbled and sent out fumes all over the house. Various people came to try these mixtures, and I remember the laughter. I was always given a taste, but mine had to be "Nice and warm for Roger" and so a red-hot poker was spluttered into my little glassful. Obviously, to get rid of the alcohol.
Every night the blackout shades had to go up, and I got to go outside to check them for any slivers of light. I would look up into that vast sky and wonder how a Nazi pilot could see a little chink in a little cottage in a little village miles from anywhere.
Gran had a store cupboard which she filled with everything needed in case of occupation. Mostly I remember the jams she made. I got to choose which jar to open, some of which were 3 or 4 years old.. They had a thick sugary crust under the paper cover, and I loved to pick that off and suck on it. Somehow she managed to have some chocolate and sweets there as well, and when she asked me to go and get some, I was told, "Right then Roger, you start whistling now and keep whistling. You're good at that." Was I proud of that! Of course, it was just to ensure that I didn't munch on the chocolate or sweets.
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