CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF WARTIME DARTMOUTH

My two brothers and I made a trip recently to re-visit Dartmouth, Devon where we had experienced one of our several evacuations during the Second World War. We went to the local library to find any background material and what we discovered there from Dartmouth History Research Group papers, and in the localities where we had lived, triggered for me vivid childhood memories of our time in Devon

When the London blitz was heightened in the Spring of 1941, a second wave of evacuation from the capital took place. In families including children under school age, mothers were sent with their offspring to areas considered safe from bombing. My own family consisted of five children ranging from 3 to 7 years old (myself being the eldest) and we were sent with our mother to Devon, leaving behind our home in Seven Kings, Essex.

Initially we were placed in a hostel near Plymouth but conditions there were rather cramped so that our mother requested a separate abode and we were next sent to Coombe Cottage in the heart of the countryside near the village of Strete. Conditions here were primitive with no electricity or running water and only two bedrooms but to us children it was an idyllic place. The adjoining cottage was occupied by a woman and her two teen-age daughters. My only memory of them involved their singing songs such as “Don’t sit under the Apple Tree”. Our family favourite song was, “Run Rabbit…”.Although we had the daily task of pumping up by hand our daily water supply from a spring below the property, we also had the delight of spending much time on the nearby West Coombe Farm.

I had no previous memories of farm animals and the farmer took pleasure from introducing us to experiences such as being perched on top of a shire horse; also boating in a large tin bathtub on the farm’s duck-pond. In my own case I was allowed during holidays to help with farm chores including harvesting as there was a shortage of labour at that time. I have clear memories of collecting bundles of hay left by the combined harvester and forming them into stooks; also of the tedious job of digging up potatoes. In our spare time we played at Robin Hood in a nearby wood together with a cousin who was staying at the nearby Rogers’ farm.

In term time two of my siblings (Graham and Margaret) and I attended a small primary school in Strete which involved a walk each way of one and a half miles, mostly over a hilly, narrow road (now called Totnes Road). Luckily for us there were very few vehicles around and I can remember stopping often to pick and eat raw vegetables from the adjacent fields. At the tiny village school I can recall only being taught how to knit but I was pleased to see on our recent visit that, although the school was closed in the 1950s, the building itself still survives in the form of a restaurant.

Our time at Coombe Cottage came to an end in the late Autumn because our mother couldn’t face the prospect of spending a winter there. Getting shopping involved a two mile walk to Stoke Fleming to catch a bus for Dartmouth – no fun with so many young children. We did have some help from a British Army unit encamped nearby and mother reciprocated by supplying them with home-made cakes. We were also able to get dairy products beyond our rations from local farmers and we grew vegetables in our back garden. However, a move to the nearby town of Dartmouth was seen as desirable and so our stay in the countryside lasted for little more than six months. During our recent visit the, current owner, who had acquired both cottages, was kind enough to show us around what had been converted into a modern home inside the original shell to an amazingly high standard, unrecognisable from what we had known in 1941.

Our father, previously working in London, had managed to find a job in the nearby Dartmouth shipyard as a wages clerk, having failed his call-up medical. My parents had found and rented two stories of a large house at No.7 Mount Boone. Thus our standard of living was much improved with modern amenities such as electricity and running water and there were gardens at front and back; the latter being long and sloping with magnificent views over the harbour. The streets and alleys down into the town were narrow and steep but we children hardly noticed this fact. The current owner offered us warm hospitality this September and I was interested to see that the house was as good as I had remembered it.

We were grateful in those days to have both parents with us and they joined in during good weather by playing my favourite game of cricket. Sometimes this activity took place on the relatively level part of Mount Boone but sometimes down in the town on a grassy area which I believe is now known as Coronation Park. For other forms of recreation we relied upon card games as toys were difficult to obtain For the Christmas of 1941 my father constructed the boys in the family each a warship with the hulls cut from an old ironing board and the superstructure made from matchboxes and cotton reels. Unfortunately he left the painting rather late in the day and we all ended up with grey hands on Christmas morning, to our mother’s annoyance.

We also had the luxury of visits from some of our relations coming down from London to stay, especially our Aunt Eileen and her two sons. As well we saw our aunt’s two younger sisters who took us children swimming in the Froward Point area; other visits were with our parents to Blackpool and Slapton Sands. Our mother had become very friendly with the local Sparkes family who lived at Old Mill farm, just outside the town and we became frequent visitors there as well.

An interesting situation occurred when soldiers who were based in the grounds of the nearby naval college began practising manoeuvres and other forms of training. I can remember one particular day when a small group of them set up a machine gun post on top of a shed in the corner of our front garden. One of the soldiers offered us some sweets if we would have a look along the road to see if there were any more soldiers wearing different coloured armbands. I then piped up rather sanctimoniously that they wouldn’t have us to help them when they reached the other side of the channel. The reply I got is unprintable although the rest of the group laughed.

Naturally I had to enrol in the local Dartmouth primary school together with my brother Graham and sister Margaret who were also of school age. The headmaster and headmistress of the two parts of the school were called Mr. And Mrs. Diamond. For some unknown reason they took a bit of a ‘shine’ to me, apparently being impressed at my reading ability and after a while they asked me daily to read out to the school excerpts from the Daily Express about progress of the War. They were very kind to me and when eventually we came to leave Dartmouth they presented me with a very nice fountain pen. My main memory of being at the school was watching large numbers of films, mostly produced by the government. I had the impression they were a bit short of teachers.

One exciting event during May was a surprise visit by the King and Queen. We schoolchildren were marshalled down to the embankment to wave and cheer as their majesties drove by in an open topped car. My position was opposite the area now known as the ‘Boat Float’. To me, a much more exciting event took place a few months later when one summer day a German reconnaissance bomber aircraft flew over the town chased by three British fighter planes. To my disgust one of the fighters was shot down (having lost a wing) but shortly afterwards I was pleased to see the German craft in flames crashing into the sea outside the harbour. Almost immediately afterwards an Air-Sea rescue boat was heading out of the harbour and through the boom defence at the entrance. Soon enough the craft returned with three captured German aircrew in their brown uniforms and we all rushed down to the quayside to see them brought ashore. Needless to say, all the children booed them heartily. However, the men hardly noticed, looking relieved to have survived.

Later that Summer of 1942, on a warm sunny day, my younger brother and I were lying down in the garden sunbathing. Suddenly I noticed a slightly built man, wearing a dark suit, enter the garden via a side passage and look around rather furtively; since we were partly obscured by steep terracing, he failed to notice us. Suddenly he pulled out a small camera from inside his jacket and began to take snaps of the shipping in the harbour. I can only remember that among other craft there was a British submarine moored there. I was old enough to realise that what the man was doing was wrong and I stood up yelling out, “What do you think you’re doing?”. He turned around at a distance from me of about 20 feet, looking startled and without a word quickly ran from the garden followed by a stone which my brother Graham remembers I hurled at him.

I rushed indoors and found my father who happened to be there at the time. Having heard my story he immediately rang the local police station. Within minutes a police car arrived and I was placed in the front with my father sitting in the back. Since I had received a clear look at the intruder it was hoped that I would spot him somewhere in the vicinity. Frustratingly, despite driving around for about two hours, I was unable to see this individual and we gave up the idea. The policemen asked me to keep my eyes open for the next few days and to report any further sightings but despite my best efforts I saw no more of what I assumed was a German spy.

Around this time my father, who in peacetime was a professional pianist, organised a concert for the crew of a British submarine (the name of which I can’t remember). I can recall, however, that he played the Warsaw Concerto which was received with great acclaim. Sadly we heard a few weeks later that the submarine had been lost with all hands in the Irish Sea. Whether this event was linked to the activity of the man taking the photographs who can say but I cannot help being amused when I read histories of the 2^nd World War that all German spies were captured before they could become active in Britain The only other memory surviving from that period is the sight of Wrens walking along the embankment hanging on to the tether of barrage balloons destined for vessels about to leave for the English Channel.

The other big event later that year in September was a bombing raid of the harbour area and shipyard by some German fighter bombers. I believe at this time the yard was starting to build barges for the planned invasion of the European mainland and the Germans had got wind of this and the raid led to many casualties. So what had seemed to us as a haven of peace, unlike Plymouth which we had seen burning night after night, Dartmouth now seemed to have become a target as well. Our father, who had had much experience of being bombed, now reasoned that we had a better chance of survival in the much larger area of London. This judgement turned out not to be true since our house in Seven Kings was destroyed by a V2 rocket two years later – luckily we had recently moved out. Ironically we would have been much safer to have stayed in Dartmouth rather than returning to that rather drab part of Essex but hindsight is a wonderful thing!.

E.J.Razzell

October 2005