Anyone in my age group will remember the words “Put that light out,” used by ARP Wardens during the blackouts in World War II. All houses had blackout curtains, vehicle headlamps had hooded shades and cycle lamps and torches were dimmed by black paint over half the lens. Even striking a match in the dark could result in the public being challenged.
During some blackouts I was a ‘guinea pig’ for the Red Cross. On the first of these occasions, I was stationed on the corner of Ivor Road, Hamworthy with an ARP Warden and had a label tied to me stating that I had a back injury. For added dramatic effect, I had to lie on the ground, waiting for the improvised ambulance (a baker’s van!) to arrive.
St Michael’s Hall, the Red Cross headquarters, was a wooden building next to the Blandford Road pump house (now a brick building housing Watkins & Watkins Propellers). The headquarters was quite close to Ivor Road and I could have walked there easily, but for my imaginary injury. Eventually the baker’s van picked me up and transported me to the hall, back doors wide open all the way as it was too short to accommodate the full length of the stretcher!
It was all worthwhile though, because volunteers received a cup of tea, cakes and biscuits; and of course we were helping the war effort.
That old, wooden hall was also the place where I learned to dance – the hard way! How the girls must have suffered as I kicked them around the dance floor with my ‘two left feet’. It was hardly Strictly Come Dancing and the judges were the girls with whom you had danced – if you asked for another dance and got a refusal, you soon realised you were no Fred Astaire. With the number of refusals I received, I think I was more Fred Flintstone!
My second escapade as a blackout guinea pig occurred at the same spot in Ivor Road, this time with a different injury and a very different outcome. I was waiting with the ARP Warden, looking at the stars on a cold, clear night, when he decided to walk to headquarters to fetch a couple of blankets telling me “Won’t be long.” Shortly afterwards, I heard the drone of aircraft engines, then the eerie wail of the air raid sirens. Searchlight beams began to scan the sky. Although I was just 11 years old, I was quite content to watch the display – that was until the anti-aircraft guns started firing! All alone, I then got scared…what should I do? Wait for the transport, run to St Michael’s Hall or dash for home? I chose the latter.
At full pace I scarpered to Harbour Road, where I lived. On reaching the row of terraced cottages, I felt along the front garden hedge in the darkness. Finding the front door, I opened it and walked down the passageway into the kitchen where, to my surprise, Mr and Mrs Russell, our neighbours, were sat at the table. “My, it’s Percy Scott’s boy,” said Mrs Russell. In the pitch dark of the blackout I had lost my bearings and was two houses out!
Mr Russell took me home, where all my family then climbed into our indoor Morrison Shelter. After the all-clear, the ARP Warden called to check that all was well and that I was, indeed, at home.
The label was still tied to me, stating ‘broken leg’ – didn’t I do well to run all the way home with an injury like that!
