Winter, 1941. The snow was gradually turning to slush.
The war was in its third year and, being an eleven year old boy, I found it all very interesting – especially the tasks we had to fulfil to help with the war effort. After school our duty was to report to gun sites and help fill sand bags, to collect waste paper or scrap iron, or sometimes we would be guinea pigs for the ambulance service.
But today was Saturday, so we could do our own thing. My mate, Jimmy Coomber, decided we should ‘attack’ the Home Guard headquarters at the end of our road. My shoes weren’t waterproof enough to walk through the slush and snow, even though my mother had put cardboard insoles over the holes. I noticed my father’s fur-lined boots and decided they would be just right. Without telling my mother, I put them on. They were about ten sizes too big for me but that was ok, the main thing was my feet were dry and I thought I looked quite the part!
Armed with our catapults, we left home to begin our assault on the battalion headquarters of the Hamworthy Home Guard, at that time captained by Mr Lake, landlord of the Potters Arms. They were housed in an old manor, the home of a Miss Sally Clark who, when the war began, had been given notice to vacate the property. The house had many rooms, including a cellar, plus coach house, stables, a large walled garden and a long semi-circular drive in front. It was well protected from bomb blast by sand bags (many of which my friends and I had filled).
We approached the building through some bushes at the front, step-by-step moving stealthily into the walled garden at the rear. We entered the stable block and then the coach house. There were still bales of straw in there from the days when it must have been a welcome sight for horses, being the last feeding and watering place for them on the lower Hamworthy peninsula. There was no sign of life. How strange we thought, here we are a country at war and there wasn’t a Home Guard in sight. With our loaded catapults, we had ‘captured’ the unit’s headquarters without firing a shot! If we’d managed it so easily, what would the Germans have done?
It was nearing time for dinner, so we decided to make our withdrawal by the same route we arrived. All the snow had turned to sleet and there was plenty of cold slush on the ground, but my feet were still dry because of the boots. Suddenly we froze – a Special Police Constable was cycling towards the entrance. To my amazement and horror, Jimmy fired his catapult at him! I can remember to this day the sound the stone made when it hit the framework of his bike.
There was no time to stand on ceremony – we turned and ran as fast as we could into the walled garden with the policeman now on foot in hot pursuit. With hearts beating and lungs panting we reached the wall at the bottom of the garden. Jimmy leaped and pulled himself up over the six-foot high brick wall and I closely followed. I jumped and pulled myself up with great determination but, in the process, and to my dismay, one of my boots fell off!
For a few seconds I was left with the choice of fleeing home wearing one boot and facing the wrath of my father, or dropping to the ground and being caught by the policeman. I chose the latter. The constable told me to hand over my catapult but I told him I didn’t have one – luckily I had thrown it over the wall. Not believing me, he started looking around on the ground, when his eye caught the dropped boot.
‘Where did you get those boots?’ he asked.
I thought to myself, good news, he’s not interested in the catapult. Proudly, I answered ‘They’re my fathers!’
‘Then I’d like to meet your father,’ he replied. ‘You’d better take me to your home.’
Now there would be trouble from both of them!
I had no choice but to accompany him, so off we went. We made our way through the slushy snow, the policeman pushing his bike beside me. He questioned me about my friend Jimmy – what his name was, where he lived – but I wouldn’t give him any information. Foremost in my mind was, why was he so interested in my dad’s boots?
On arriving home, I was told to go upstairs and to remain there until sent for. My father, who worked at the J. Bolson & Son shipyard, would be home for dinner shortly and would soon sort it out. (And sort it out he did – including me!) The constable and father had a talk, I was sent for and everything was explained to me. It turned out that the catapult incident was secondary. It was the boots that stole the show! The policeman said that the boots I’d been wearing were in fact government property and my dad had bought them from a sailor off one of the ships that was in Bolson’s shipyard for repair. In other words, they were obtained on the black market! The policeman, having written down all the information, closed his note book and, just as he was leaving, said to me with a chuckle
‘The trouble with you, young feller, is you were too small for your boots!”
Eventually my father was summoned before the Magistrate’s Court where he was fined five shillings (a lot of money in those days) and the boots confiscated. After his court appearance, the outcome sent a shockwave through the shipyard. Men removed or discarded all kinds of clothing, tinned food, footwear, blankets, tobacco etc. and it all came about because two young boys decided to ‘attack’ the Home Guard unit headquarters!
Just think, if Captain Luke and his men had been at the manor house that day, they would have asked us to chop firewood and given us a cup of tea, and my dad would still have had his fur-lined boots and been five shillings in pocket!!
