Page 3
An Account
of a 14 year old Boys
Experiences with the American Troops in Devon
By Nick Osgood
(c) Nick Osgood/Mike Kemble 2 June 2004
In Memory of John Spooner
The county of Devon is known as one in a collection of the most beautiful quiet backwaters that England has to offer in its southwest quarter. A rather out of the way from the public eye county as compared to the many others parts of the country, especially at this time in the twentieth century. It was April 1944 and England was at war. A strong defensive was being shown in England after periods of twenty-four hour aerial bombardment of major cities by the Germans. Our part of Devon however, was not as badly affected as the rest of the country currently being bought to its knees. Country folk, although not ignorant of the surrounding action just distances away, were going about their usual daily routines suffering with only minor stresses. Husbands and brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who had been called up, left others to carry on the farms and businesses of Devon as best they could. Major food rationing was in full effect, no dry goods or raw materials and the usual everyday products in short supply. People relied on each other for help and in this part of the country that was the standard approach to life anyway, so it came fairly easily. It was sometimes shown as a small amount of fruit and vegetables, or maybe fish or a help with the house. Teignmouth didn't stop its harvest of seafood totally, even though there were very few feisty young men standing around to set sail out to the horizon in great smoking trawlers at a moments notice. Instead, older men in smaller rowing boats with salmon nets ventured out cautiously, sticking close to the coast for its protection. They knew that they could scurry back to the best of their bent-backed, grey-haired abilities, at a moment’s notice, to the debatable safety of the harbour if there were signs of an imminent air raid or as darkness fell, which ever in their minds came first. Then huddle together in a glass of beer, discussing what “ifs” and “why-fores” of the day.
I was fourteen and eagerly wanting to grow up faster than anyone else at school. My Father and oldest brother Steve, both called up three years earlier, were currently serving with the Royal Navy somewhere in the Pacific. Each day after school and at weekends, I rode Steve's rusty old bicycle to The Central Garage down in the town. Mr. Jackson, the owner, paid me two shillings a week to tidy up the grubby grease pit that he and his wife Hilda called a business. Between sweeping up and making tea, I was sometimes allowed to help with the recycling through a dirty filter of the used motor oil ready for re-sale. No new work was done at this time and people who owned cars couldn't afford to use them anyway, since petrol rationing was in full force and the pure pleasure of walking from place to place provided them with the opportunity to meet and talk with other townsfolk. Really, this last action helped greatly to build a strong confidence amongst the locals at a time when support from all directions was extremely necessary. Unexpectedly one Monday morning, Mr. Jackson in the early hours, boarded up the front of his garage having earlier poisoned his wife Hilda and then promptly hung himself in the workshop. Most of the townsfolk truly believed that it was due to a combination of his alcoholism brought on from the news last year that his son Jeff, currently missing in action, had gone on long enough for him to be able to handle. Excerpts in the Teignmouth Post newspaper over the following weeks declared these to be the reasons for his passing but I knew deep down that definitely the only reason for his death, and judging by his whiskey breathed incessant complaints, was his oversized inability to wear the dirty mechanics coveralls hanging on the back of the toilet door that proudly bore a name tag with the letters JEFFREY stitched on it.
It was still early spring, the summer hadn't yet begun and its usual kind of restless excitement inside would not allow me to sit still. My brothers` bicycle, although rusty and clangy and in need of major attention, at this time of my life was still my best friend. It took me to places further and faster than any other method currently at my disposal. The inside energy that I was experiencing powered the source for the enthusiasm of those growing years in Teignmouth. I felt that I had to try and look beyond my current doorstep if adventure was to be achieved. As with many of the small coastal towns, Teignmouth was built where a river estuary meets the ocean offering a small, yet busy harbour. Behind the town were beautiful moorland hills that were to lead to unexplored destinations for me. I made myself a commitment, as my garage job was now null and void, and before this last fact had become fully evident to my mother, this coming weekend I would ride Steves` bicycle up to a part of these moors. Maybe there I could “breath" a little and possibly relieve the frustrations of cooped up energy that I was currently experiencing. Saturday arrived, breakfast was hurried through and it was lightly raining. Being that Friday had been washing day for my mother and the clothes were still out on the line from the day before, they hung wet in the rain. That fact was of little concern to me, their availability was, it made it of great convenience to pull someone's underwear from the line and wipe the bicycles` seat and handlebars down. Then I could simply throw the used item into the nearby bushes and claim no knowledge whatsoever when cornered at a later date, simply blaming the condition on the recent partnership of high winds and overnight rains. Off I cycled, the rain turned to an irritable fine mist the further I rode up from the town. The moorland wasn’t too far by bicycle and soon I was amongst the low growing purple heather and gorse hedging that grew abundantly over the area. I followed an un-signposted side road made up of crushed flint and was able to appreciate the sweet smell of wet peat that was the base for these different lands. The clouds hung low here, hanging themselves on the hills peaks like the meringue on mothers lemon pies. Misty might have been the correct word to some, but hampering was the correct word to me as my exhausted lungs experienced with the historic struggling of asthma took in the days` dampness and started to tighten. Yet obsessed with the enthusiasm of the day I peddled onwards, even in pain, for I knew the prospect that lay ahead from memories of past trips in the Austin Seven with my father.
Where this hill flattened out at the top used to be a small private airstrip known as Haldon Aerodrome. During the twenties and thirties the occasional luxury twelve seater planes would land, full of England's famous society who came to golf for the day on the Haldon Moor Golf course. Then in the recent years before the war it was used for pilots from the local school in their Lysander trainers. But due to the countries status was there anything like this to be found here today. Even the grey planked wreck that they called a radio shack today lay in an angular windswept ruin. Had it all been bombed out during the past weeks I considered...maybe yes, I concluded, that was it! We must have been hit by some horrific Luftwaffe action, like the ones that I had been hearing about from the grown-ups, the ones that had annihilated London to a complete and utter wasteland of desolation. I dropped the bike for a moment to see if I might trace a piece of lucky shrapnel or stray bullet for school from the awful bombings or dog-fight between an ME109 and Spitfire that my imagination allowed me to retrace on that night …but nothing…just heather and flint….lots of it. I peddled on a bit further down to the end of the road that ran parallel to the airstrip and then stopped to rest at the crossroads to catch my breath and with the possibility to be able to catch a glimpse of the overwhelming view of the coast that would run left and right of me. But today this was not to be, the rains` fog had enclosed any such beauty until another day. Looking up at the signpost at the crossroads, I saw that I had ridden an mind-boggling three miles from the town centre of Teignmouth and now newer places stood at my disposal which lay a greater distance a field such as Dawlish, Exeter, Chudleigh or Heathfield. The only one feasible by bicycle in my mind was to be Chudleigh, down in the valley on the other side of the hill. I recall during the past months the Teignmouth Post newspaper mentioning an American army camp, or Military Base, located just around that area, that seemed interesting. So therefore with the signpost showing it as only being a few miles away I hastily straddled the rusty monster once again. Cycling hard from the hills` brow and then picking up speed as it merged from flint, back on to the surfaced road, controlling the side skidding as the flint flew away on the hard tarmac... It felt like I was flying!!! Now had I remembered to seriously consider before undertaking any such a downhill run the simple fact that my brothers bike was in severe need of servicing, I soon found it to be in the area of ………..brake blocks. It became horrifyingly apparent to me at the first hedged corner when in an uncontrollable movement I rapidly ran straight on and sort of up the side of the high hedge, landing bodily in the field further on. Luckily for me as only having just left the moor, the hedge contained mainly bracken, so other than the knees of my school trousers, now covered in cow dung from the field the other side of the hedge and a few saplings` whip marks, was able to pick myself up unharmed. The bicycle however had ridden itself a further five or so cow-dung patches on in to the field and was in need of a fair few grass bunch wipings before being able to be put back into reuse if I was to continue on down the hill. Why did I want to carry on down to Chudleigh after my first encounter with bad luck? Well maybe I had this inner force driving me forward so that I might have a chance sighting at what an American looked like and just how much gum he actually does chew.
So I now with the full knowledge of brake deficiency I continued on, but this time with both feet out and school shoes scuffing the roads` loose gravel, and the bicycle riding in the roads` side rain gully. After a time the road flattened out, as I approached the collection of whitewashed cottages that went to make up the start of the small village of Chudleigh. I stopped to rest once again and found myself in the well known aura of magical peace and tranquility one finds, unique only to the small country villages of Devon on sunny days. The sun had finally broken through the day’s earlier misty ambience, things felt complete. To describe to anyone here that had never left the village in past months that the country was currently at war would have been the most difficult task of anyone’s life. Then suddenly out of what seemed nowhere, from behind me, came the loud and unrecognizable sound of what turned out to be an American Jeep. The dull olive green object roared by as though there was no tomorrow. It bore a large white five pointed star on the bonnet and side doors and in the front sat two large framed individuals decked out in dark brown sheepskin leather flying jackets and green army helmets, both adorning their broad cocky smiles of American overconfidence heading to who knows where. To me this sight, as to the many other nosey villagers now timidly peeping out from behind their curtains, were aliens. For this scene had never been experienced before by anybody presently viewing. The most different daily sight but not beyond expectation may have been the view of a local farmer herding his cattle or sheep up the main street between fields or maybe the odd runaway horse, or the excitement of the Annual Morris Dancers gathering every year at the granite War Memorial in the village centre. But not aliens. The likes of this scenario was new to me except in the cherished Marvel picture comics from the USA in W.H. Smith’s back in town. I remounted my bicycle and continued to ride on through the village, but this time with great haste and in the direction that the Jeep had gone hoping that I might be able to catch a glimpse as it faded off into the distance, giving me a clue as to the directions that the Military Base might be located. Then to my greatest surprise I approached upon a scene of total unexpectation. I found the jeep parked around the corner in a totally ignorant or should I say arrogant manner and disrespect for others requiring the other parking spots outside the public house. Realizing that a wonderful opportunity had arisen, dare I take this rare once in a lifetime opportunity to investigate this alien vehicle of mystery and dreams in the eyes of a fourteen year old? The answer must have been yes for in a trancelike motion I dropped my rusty friend to the floor in total contempt for it behind the Jeep and began to critically, yet apprehensively run my eyes over the individual items that went into its construction. I knew that even Mr. Jackson, if he had still been alive, would never have seen the likes of such a thing in all of his sixty-eight years of shallow Teignmouthian life. Fine black stenciling of part numbers was on every single item that went to make up this vehicle of wonder. Strangely, I thought to myself how wrong all the adults are with their statements about how rich those Americans “over there” are, for here we have the dashboard on this motor vehicle of theirs comprising of just a simple speedometer and a couple of knobs. Even my fathers’ car had more to offer than just that!
Suddenly from behind me came a slow loud deep voiced Texas drawl … “Hey kid what ya up to …think ya can drive it?"
At least I think that's what he said. I still to this day don't remember due to the surprising heady shock of the moment. I spun around in fear, quaking in my shoes. The two previously seen American Marines in full uniform stood behind me but this time standing six foot six tall and not more than a couple of foot away from me. They both stood sort of “at ease” and with their fists firmly clenched and resting on their hips. They had their olive green trousers tucked into the tops of the largest shiny black boots I had ever seen, and they both carried a gun holster, just like the cowboys had in the comics and movies. They both wore green helmets and one of them wore a pair of sunglasses with black lenses, which I firmly believed no-one could have seen out of.
“I didn’t touch it sir” I whispered in a weak quavering voice similar to that of being in front of the headmaster at school.
“What’s that kid?” drawled the first
“Wanna go fer a ride in the back son?" said the second.
It felt like that at that moment in time I was either in some sort of trouble from Mr. Winstanley, the policeman back in Teignmouth, or that I soon would be. I said nothing whilst my stomach, bowel area and sudden dry mouth fought with each other.
"Lost ya tongue kid...no speaky da English?"
After which they both burst into laughter of what appeared to me to be some sort of a joint private joke. Why I do not know. Anyway, what an opportunity I thought, to take a ride in this alien vehicle.
"Y.. Yes sir, I’d like that a lot" I said in reply, this time with more volume.
“O.K. jump in then kiddo" one bellowed.
Forgetting about Steves` bicycle I climbed through the front seats and onto the basic wooden bench that went to make up a back seat. The other one saw the bicycle demise and stepping forward picked up the rusty hulk with one hand, a thing I knew now one was capable of, and placed it up against the closest whitewashed wall belonging to the pub and then off we went. Reversing rapidly and with absolutely no respect for the gearbox and clutch crashed it into a forward gear. Without regard for anything else that might have been moving on the road that day, screeched the tires and pulled away, jerking our necks forward and then backward. The Saturday had now finally turned to full sun and with his ignorance for the villages` speed limit, drove at a reckless pace allowing the clutch to fly out and in at the required times continuing to jerk us all back and forth until I forcibly had to stop myself from peeing in sheer terror,….. or was it excitement I don’t know. Leaning back over his shoulder, a deep voice shouted over the facial wind,
"So kid, what’s yer name and wadda ya do for fun `round these parts".
In sudden adrenaline coated boldness I blurted out. "Well sir, my name is John Spooner and I used to work at Jackson’s"
Thinking in my country ignorance that everyone in the world knew of what “Jackson’s” was, and moreover where it was. This answer wasn't the correct one the GI was looking for, as he frowned at me in misunderstanding.
“Leave him alone Clark, he's just a young kid “said the driver.
Again they both laughed for no apparent reason. Now, in my mind the name of Clark, I thought to myself, was as in clerk, in the Lloyd's bank downtown? Who in their right mind would be called Clerk, only a person from another planet…as I thought before…an alien, which at this point in time to me America seemed to be. But they complied with my return and the driver asked,
"What's` Johnson’s kiddo, some private boarding school or a local band-aid factory?"
Nervously laughing I briefly explained how I worked for Mr.Jackson the garage owner and that he hung himself on the Monday morning right after the weekend I had been working there.
“Oh, journeyman` fer a trade, eh?"
What did he say I thought to myself in again total confusion? Fur Trade? I’d heard of that term used at school in Geography class and how it was relative to The Hudson Bay somewhere over in Canada. Nodding back in smiling agreement was the kind of nervous neutral movement to his questioning that I might be able to get away with. But right now the combination of riding in the back and wind blowing in my face together with the loud humming of the tires and engine noises were causing me to shake from the creation of adrenaline and adventure. This caused my confidence to boldly and unnaturally increase despite the focal questioning as I started to imagine myself to be the third GI in the current group out on an important overseas assignment. Before I could decide how we got to where we were, we were, where we were……….. Outside the military base in Heathfield. In bold letters it showed USM CAMP HEATHFIELD - American Army and Marine Corps. Div 3227. Personnel only beyond this point.
"Sorry kid, end of the trail, out you get" said the driver.
“That’s it?” I thought, but what about getting back to the pub and what about Steve’s` rusty bike.
Now I'm not sure if it was just luck or someone up above looking down, but at this point in time a convoy of army trucks turned the corner from the opposite direction about five-hundred feet up ahead and arrived at the gates entrance. They were carrying a load of wooden crates and about every third or forth crate had a black stenciling on it the name “Harley Davidson” under which showed "American and Proud" inside a flying eagle flag emblem. They were lead by a Jeep similar to the one that I was getting out of but instead this passenger alongside the driver wore on his helmet three silver stars on the front and more stars on his uniforms` shoulders.
"Get out of the Jeep kid quick and now"
He shouted at me, but now in a louder tone than I had heard since our first meeting. I could feel the shuffling and tension occurring going on between the two of them as the two GIs briskly adjusted themselves whilst saluting with shoulders back as the convoy passed under the security barrier passed a stiffly frozen to attention guard at the guard house.
When the final truck went through in what seemed to be an eternity of time and silence had occurred. One G.I. spoke
"So... the ol mans` back in town" said Clerk in low tones.
"Yessir" replied the other
"Ike kicked him out and sent him back to the U.K.s` green fields and rain I guess".
As I stood beside the Jeep one GI reached in to his pocket and handed his partner a white-labeled piece of gum from a long rectangular packet. Then glancing at me threw the rest with what I thought was a no doubt practiced Los Angeles Dodgers accuracy, shouting at me as they pulled away under the barrier and into the compound.
"Have a good life kiddo".
Then with heads` jerking once again from the clutch work, swung around the far corner behind the building, leaving me in seconds with nothing but the resolute guard with his rifle, a Devon country roads` quiet desolation, and reality only breaking in by the realization of the possession in my hand. A small white packet bearing a name in black print……….. Wrigley's. Now, ask an out in the country fourteen year old to retrace the direction and create footsteps towards where he stood about half an hour earlier was a task greater than an end of term school math exam. But what could have been better at that time was the direction that the passing red Chudleigh Post Office van went in as its vans` engine "knocked" its way by on its return journey back to what I hoped was the post office in the village centre. I say "knocked" because being a service vehicle during wartime had been privileged to run on some type of substitute for petrol. This involved a large gas bag installed on the roof, held down by chicken mesh and the gas being fed somehow to the engine. This method of supply allowed the van to move o.k. but its main downfall was the excessive engine knock and lack of power, so my science teacher, Mr. Reed told us. This approach now causing it to run slower and rougher I was able to run along side for almost half a mile until the road started to run downhill leaving me way behind. However although standing in its stinky trail, I was able to now adequately hear with confidence where the village of Chudleigh was located. Before long I was soon walking up on the main road that led into the village and to the pub where my bicycle still sat, untouched by the world. Further on past here the red van was parked outside the post office noisily and smokily idling outside the shop in a sort of taunting “I beat you" look. I stopped outside small shop window and cupped my two hands over my eyes to look inside. Drawn to a small officially printed card taped to the inside of the open door of the store, along with other local items for sale it read:
“URGENT Temp.pt.time general labor req. Auto exp. asset. Heathfield Military Base. Phone 3551 and ask for Sgt. C. McKinnon".
Although working at Teignmouths` Central Garage for a while I had actually had no "auto" as they put it "exp." Other than what I had picked up visually, but I would like to have ago at “general labor req.”. Besides the card must be wrong, it can't be the Heathfield Military Base because of the name McKinnon. It can't belong to an American, can it? That’s Irish or Scots I thought. Those aliens over seas don’t have last names like that…..do they?
The afternoon was stretching out and I knew that in order to get home before dark I’d better make a run for the hill that led to Haldon Moor. I straddled the bicycle and peddled for all I was worth back through the village. My energy soon ran out as the hills` angular challenges made the better of a now tiring boy. I got off and started to push the not only rusty, clanging but now heavy hateful addition to my life. Exhaustively pushing and then subsequently resting until after what felt like hours I thankfully arrived at the start of the flint covered road which leads to the brow of the moor. With renewed enthusiasm I pushed until I shortly came once again upon the crossroads and its companion signpost. All the mist and rain from earlier in the day had now disappeared, and the distant horizon was now viewable as the sun had fully brightened the late afternoon. Being later than usual, the normal stop and lay back in the heather to stare straight up at the large white clouds that were now starting to yellow against the azure blue sky, was for today, cancelled. Suddenly something caught my eye; unusual shaped items off in the far distance, yet in the bay. Some kind of medium sized naval flotilla was breaking up the straight horizon that normally was to be seen day after day in its usual virgin monotony. Could it be the ships that were bringing my father and brother home, was the Navy sailing them right into our tiny fishing harbour?
Yes it must be. Excitedly, I jumped back on my bike to do the “forced breaking” freewheel down the hill to home. I had to spread the news. The downhill ride began with no delays, after all it’s downhill, but sadly how fast cow dung on the knees is forgotten, the bike still didn't have any brake blocks and gravity always overcomes school shoes and my breaking methods were again inadequate for the application. At around the same time of this realization, a side road appeared up ahead to my left. It ran straight and flat. So I simply guided the shaky contraption onto this road at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. The rough and pot holed surface gradually brought the bike to a stop. Our house was only a half a mile or so the other side of the hedged hay fields on the left. So I was able to simply find the field’s gateway and try my best to ride across this newly mown field. Before long I was tiredly forcing the rusty remains of metalwork that I had relied upon for a life earlier in the day into the wooden shed at the back, but not before giving the pittance of an ocean view from our back garden one final glance……the previous view had disappeared…the ships had hastily sailed on out of sight.
What I recall with a distinct clarity to this day was that back then, no matter what the weather or the progress of the current war conditions were that I was always woken on Sunday mornings in Teignmouth by the joyous and happy sounds of church bells calling parishioners to their various establishments of worship. Call these sounds traditional, but back then on that particular Sunday they meant to me more than I had ever wished for. Today I was going down to the end of our road to the red phone box to phone Sgt. C. McKinnon at Heathfield. 3551. and apply for that job with or without my” Auto exp”! If successful it seemed such a long distance to travel in my mother’s minds eye, when the dreams of my plans were explained over breakfast. Very true it was, if you took the normal approach, up the road that ran beside the river…. by car. It was almost eight miles. But I pleadingly explained in a white lie that if I took the moorland road on Steves` bicycle it was a meager mile and a bit, knowing full well in my heart that it was at least four miles....but mainly downhill I told myself. Church was calling, my mother was distracted, places to go, people to see. The meeting was over, thank the Lord, literally, I thought, for my mothers preoccupation had smiled today in my favour on this Sunday for me. I grabbed the handful of odd coins from inside my shoe box that the palm of Mr. Jackson’s` greasy hand had placed into mine the night before his final dilemma, and ran down to the phone box at the corner. I never have reason to use the phone, ever, but today of all days, frustratingly someone was using the thing before me. I waited and waited and waited for what seemed hours, well at least until I needed to pee. Then suddenly, it was my turn. In I went. The phone box smelt of a sort of damp bad odour and a dirty oniony sort of smell surrounded the hand piece, what sort of foul person must it have been that used it before me. I slapped my coins down on the shelf on top of the phone. It was time to put in two pennies in slot A of the black phones front. Both of which swiftly got knocked from the shelf to the floor in hasty nervousness. But I was sure I had two more. Then promptly, and with a nervous shake did the process again and began to dial the number…. 3..5..5.1...... ......... ........ .. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep went the phone.
Then it rang. Burr...burr…burr...burr....burr...then all so very fast, a deep, somewhat familiar drawly, voice spoke………
"U.S.M. Camp Heathfield... Sgt. C. McKinnon speaking.
I knew straight away, it was the Clerk man from the Jeep ride of yesterday. The shock of this unexpected familiarity caused me to stumble even more with a nervous pause not knowing what to say.
“Hello" he spoke again.
"Uh.hello" I nervously replied.
"Do you need help with cars?"
"Cars" he bellowed
"What cars, autos?"
"Y.Y...Yesir" I replied
"Waddya mean...Who is this?" Sgt. C. McKinnon again bellowed.
I tried to explain but in complete and utter anxiety as though I was standing outside the school staff room about to be disciplined. I blurted out my name,
“J...J..John Spooner, the boy that he and his friend gave a ride to yesterday from the centre of the village and that………”
“Corporal Wainwright, ya mean" he butted into my conversation with.
"Uh...” unknowing what he meant by this, simply agreed again.
"Yesir, and that I had worked for Mr. Jackson at his garage on Saturdays and after school for the last year cleaning up and making tea.
"Tea.....tea?" he roared condescendingly.
"We won’t be needin` that, WE here, don't drink that there tea…. java son, java"
Then I feel sure I heard him spit to the floor below from the corner of his mouth.
"Where j`get this idea that we're needin` help son” Sgt. C. McKinnon shouted.
“Well" I continued in complete confusion as to what "idea" was.
"You have a sign in the Post Office window up in the vill...."
"The United States Government has an ad kiddo, not me Sgt. C. McKinnon” he again butted in.
"My job is purely military, son, purely military. Are you callin` yerself a Line Mechanic” he spoke?
“Cos that's what were lookin` fer boy, Line Mechanics to help out" he said.
"No sir" I replied.
"No sir is right boy you ain't that, an` that's fer sure, you’d be just a go fetch boy” There was a long pause and I hoped my phone money wouldn’t expire.
“But that never did hurt, show up at 800 hours on Saturday" he finally said.
"Thank you sir" I said in excitement
"Yer welcome boy" was the prompt American standard reply.
To which a standard English reply would have been.
“Well thank you, so are you"
But if it had occurred would have undoubtedly lead to a continuance of the last replies from each other in correct politeness until the current world as we know it blew apart in the next atomic age. So luckily for me before this occurred he had slammed the phone down and left me holding a dirty black stinky one, which briefly went into the beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep of expiry and then back to the constant hummmmmmmm. Not that it mattered, in return forgot my British manners also slammed the receiver down, then forgot the remainder of my change for the phone and ran up the road faster and more excited than I had ever done before in my life. Now I was ready to take over the best job for the upcoming summer that anyone kid from my school could wish for. I had to make this venture last as long as possible. But how wrong could I have been if only if I had been able to see into the future at that point in time. This I'm sure was to be the shortest part-time job in the history of England being that it unknowingly bordered on the doorstep of a world history event.
Aware that an adventure was about to begin for me this coming Saturday the week at school dragged on like never before. It rained heavily every day for the next few days, but without despondency I was determined to do what I could to Steves` bicycle in order that I could make it a more safe source of operation for the coming Saturdays` venture. After school each night, with the rain dripping and splashing through that wooden shed and sharing this pretence with every garden tool imaginable I did what I could in order that the rusty contraption a more viable proposition.
“Oil” my dad always said.
He used to use oil on things. Exactly what for, I didn't quite know but ...oil. So oil it was, chain, pedals, brake levers and wheel axles, until it dripped heavily on the dirt floor. Then finally having pumped up the tyres I was now satisfied that I had increased its ability to go at least fifty percent faster. I stood up straight in self-satisfaction, only to bang the top of my head on the shelf above the bike that the can of Three-In-One had been on, plus promptly knocking most of its contents to the floor. One of which was a jam jar of rusty fencing nails and four partly worn brake blocks from a prior transition that Steve may have once done in the past. Worn or not, for me I thought, it was to be the difference between cow-dung and breezing down the hills of Saturday at hundreds of miles per hour with a new approach to safety. At least it was possible for me to put these on, using an old pair of rusty pliers from the shelf's` prior eruption. Within minutes I had the dirty dust clad units installed and adjusted. Ha, I thought, no more worn out shoe soles to have to explain away.
Saturday arrived for me at the anxious hour of six o'clock. The weather was of absolutely no consequence at all, but I think it had been raining once again, looking back on that day in memory. Neither was it of any consequence the contents of my breakfast or the ride up over the moors and down the hill towards Chudleigh. I only woke to the realities of my everyday life when I went to use the newly installed brake blocks. They worked, oh yes they worked, but as anyone knows, even the best of brakes don’t work as well as they should when you ride through rain. So I was now doing the one hundred miles per hour of reckless abandon that I had hope to instill through the oily tune up of the week. Luckily for me I proceeded to ride the distance before the first turn in the road, more into the centre and applied full brake pressure, knowing that this would allow them to dry out and bring me to and eventual stop, just in time for the first corners hedge, and it did. Down to the village I rode, continuing on through, up the slight incline until I could see the entrance to the Military Base a mile or so ahead, thinking to myself that I would standardly be stopped and strip searched by the M.P. upon arrival. Eagerly I arrived at the entrance barrier but to my unexpected surprise found no one at the small M.P.s hut by the barrier. Strange I thought, but deciding that he must have been taking his coffee-break, I peddled the bicycle past without stopping. The large and long dirty looking red brick building offered equal sets of partially broken windows at the top of its walls. I remember it to have once been an engineering factory prior to the current war, manufacturing gearboxes for fork lift trucks or was it wheelbarrows, I didn’t recall.
Outside the warehouse at the end was an open storage area where twenty or so American Sherman tanks stood what looked like on guard? Their gun turrets pointed in unison towards the morning sun like a team of drab green olive aliens from another land. All collectively outstretching their fingers in recognition of a planet from their own solar system, sleeping today, yet appearing to be ready for action at a moment's notice. Beyond these on a large central cement pad area I saw lines of fully clad American marines in what looked like chess pawns all drilling in unison under marching orders. In the background was spread out in rows their tin roofed barracks. I dismounted and propped the bicycle outside a large sliding door currently open and timidly stood in its entrance peering inside. For a country boy, what I saw was beyond any imagination or expectancy. Firstly the strong smell of diesel fuel like nothing I had experienced before, even from the farm behind our house. American soldiers of all shapes and sizes most of them sported what looked like a baldness condition; a very short haircut that we at school called a “crew cut”. They were all communicably dressed in the unison style of green baggy trousers, black shiny boots, some wearing white t-shirts and some in green jackets with their name, rank and number stitched above their top right hand breast pocket. Most also wore a sort of green peaked drill cap. They were all in the various stages of current "auto" maintenance. Bending over, crouching, laying, crawling or simply standing over what seemed an uncountable number of vehicles and tanks. Yet all, yes all, either chewing gum or had a hand rolled, oil soaked cigarette draping out of their mouths. My movement in so much as blocking the light somewhat at the doorway must have been the distraction that caught the eye of the nearest mechanic to me. He looked up with a smile
“Ya lookin` fer, Thunderballs?" he called out.
"Thunderballs, what’s Thunderballs?" I thought.
The diversion had also caught the eye of a familiar face to me that presented itself from the next truck along, Corporal Cartwright. The other marine in the Jeep last weekend. This name was soon to be corrected when I stood in complete and utter nervousness just twelve inches away and read the name from his jacket as Wainwright. Why, I thought do these men from another country need the requirement of their name to be advertised on their clothing at all times, does America have so many similar situations in its country that their name can be forgotten so fast? Only too true I suppose, as I had just proved.
"Here to help out? He said
“Then what's` yer name boy?"
"J..John Spooner sir, remember me from last week in the Jeep" I stuttered. Without any reply of past recognition he spoke.
"Well Spooner, let’s start by picking up every canteen mug in sight, every cigarette stub, every dirty rag, every gum wrapper and every chewed gum piece within eyesight and not. We have a major inspection on Tuesday and we want to shine...right son?"
I said nothing in reply.
"Right?" the voice came back only louder.
"Oh yes right" I replied.
"Sir" came back the bellow again.
"Sir" I said.
"Then let’s get crackin` Spooner" he said even louder.
Using the little experience that I had gained at Jackson’s I remember that Mr.Jackson had always taught me to pick up using one of those empty cardboard boxes that contained the tins of whitewash that he was one day going to use on the garage, but never did. Except this place wasn't like that. It was vast and active and exciting. What I did find was a large grease can, sort of empty, at least enough for me to cover its thick black remains in rags in a fast ten minutes or so. I remember it well; I took fifteen greasy can loads to the dump bin behind the workshop that day, before it was "sort of" tidied up. Over the day time I was there, one by one each and every mechanic looked up and gave their style of visual address as a new face entered their workplace world. Some smiled with a
“Hi ya kid”
Type of greeting, and some some scowled in resistance to the situation. In awe I could see what looked like a representative from every corner of the world, an ethnic melting pot, being on display that day in the form of one mechanic or another, a never before seen sight in Teignmouth.. Oh, accept for The Fortes family, who owned the ice - cream parlor in town, they were apparently Italian. But I was confused to see more than one or two representations from what looked like an Asian area. Wasn't America currently at war with one of these countries? If so then why was.....
“Spooner" came a scream from the other end.
“Up here boy, help with these crates”
Corporal Wainwright stood at the far end in front of the large sliding doors; his legs apart with his large fists clenched on his waist in a demanding pose, similar to as once before up in the village.
"Yes sir" I shouted back in a now new found confidence, and I ran to his demand.
"Pick up the entire crates` nails off the floor here Spooner, and stack the wood slats over there out`a the way against the wall" he said.
Now if enough excitement for one day hadn't already been adequate for my shallow exposure to the world outside Devon. I looked over to the corner to where he was pointing to, and at one of the many crates that had been opened sometime for its military inspection. There in various stages of mechanical completion lay the many parts of a motorcycle and sidecar. On its petrol tank in gold the words Harley-Davidson were expressing themselves to the viewer, like a wrestler forcing the world to focus on their overly muscled chest before an upcoming fight. An over abundance of greased paper and shredded wood packaging lay in total disarray. The site looked not unlike the wholesale destruction seen around the tree on Christmas morning each year after everyone had done their annual worst. In later years when recounting this scene I'm sure the inner frenzy and pure adrenaline rush emitted by those proud American mechanics undertaking the required assembly of that time from the crates contents, was none the less than that of a Christmas morning to each and every one of them, now knowing its patriotic relativity to them.
I was ordered to tidy up the strewn goings on, which I did to the best of my abilities. At least I went through the motions of the current required order by stacking all of the packaging back into what remained of the single crate, whilst my staring eyes were transfixed in the direction of the assembly being carried out by the four men.
"Fine machine ain't she buddy"
Came a deep drawly voice from the top of the tank directly to the side of the crate. It was a negro that had been working on the Sherman closest to me. He jumped down from the top landing not more than four feet away from me with a hefty sixteen stone thud. I hadn't ever seen a black man in real life before, only in the school geography books and bibles. Suddenly my focus left the motorcycle assembly area to boldly stare in uncontrolled rudeness at this new phenomenon. George. Private 3622713B was his name. His large eyes were sort of a dark yellowish where the white should have been and matched the colour of his badly broken teeth. His nostrils were bigger than any nose that I had ever seen and sat almost flat on his face...even Colin Biggs` nose at school wasn’t quite as big as Georges`. Although it was a fairly coolish spring afternoon, his skin presented itself in an all over perspiration unlike the other men. But his smile was that of a positive and friendly attitude and I felt at ease when spoken to.
“What will you be using these motorcycles for, sir?" I asked.
"Call me George there, boy, and what is your name?" he asked as he threw me a Wrigley strip.
"John Spooner" I replied.
"Well Johnny, I'm not too sure, maybe deliveries or summit like it" he said
"But forty?...weeeell me thinks it's a fixin` somewhat by ol` Thuderballs”
He said scratching his bald head whilst holding his cap with the same hand.
“cos he rides `em back in Californ i a, an weez don’t be aneedin forty of `em fer deliveries” whereupon he promptly laughed.
George's` breath ranked with the foul odour coming from the remains of the short stub of the unlit cigar wedged into the far side of his mouth, unlit, yet being sucked and chewed on every few seconds or so. The Wrigley's did absolutely nothing for his breath situation at all.
"PLATOON `SHUN"
Bellowed out a loud voice from somewhere down at the other end. Then as if a tornado had hit, all shapes and sizes of men sprung or slid from their various locations in response to the order. All the tools noisily clanged their way to the floor as the men dropped them and ran to the front of their corresponding vehicles, promptly lining up shoulders back and heads up in a sudden roaring silence. I felt my self crouch down behind the open crate in fear and then over a silent moment that lasted until what seemed eternity came the clack, clack, clack, clack of an in time march, increasing in volume with each step. As my eyes peeked over the top edge of the wooden slats I saw from the far right hand side
Sgt. McKinnon escorted by Corporal Wainwright in subordinate yet rapid tow, marching at the same pace. At the same speed as his entry Sgt. McKinnon patrolled the line up without the traditional hesitation to stop for corrections or complaints as I had heard that happens from the boys in Air Cadets at school.
After patrolling the line up he marched at the same speed back from the end and stopped at a spot that looked like an accurately measured centre position. He put his hands behind his back and without changing the stone look that his face showed, commenced.
“At ease men.” He paused and took a long deep breath.
“Men.... today is Saturday. At 2200 hours on Tuesday, we are joining forces with American Naval Platoon 4140 from Camp Dartmouth in a combined military maneuver under the heading of Operation Tiger”
(Dartmouth....Dartmouth…...I remember it well...my parents once took us for a picnic there just before he was called up. It was about twenty miles away and by the sea, oh yes and it also had a naval college that he hoped for me to join in a few years, I think.).
“So gentlemen, speed up your current assignments and complete your work by Monday. A full code red is effect for this current issue men."
Where upon he spun on the spot to a perfect ninety degrees and they both marched out again in time. The line broke up and without any small talk went back to their previous assignments. I feel sure, had he known at that time, me, an alien being, encroaching on his territory, was present and within hearing range, this speech may not have taken place. When finally standing up, my wristwatch caught on one of the crates` nails, drawing attention to the fact that had become 4.35 p.m.!!!! Hell, I'm late for starting back home, I said to myself. From behind the crate I hurried, stepping without too much care over the assembly instructions for the miscellany of mechanical wonders that went to make up this so-called U.S. stupefaction. Running pass the front row of surely looking armoured vehicles to the end of the warehouse. Then glancing back over my shoulder for a moment to take just one more mental memory before cycling home…….. Only to run into Corporal Wainwright marching in my direction
"Sirens started have they Spooner?" he said.
"Germans in the kitchen?"
"No sir I'm late for home" I replied.
"Be here at 0700 hours next week Spooner, we’ll need more help with the rest of those crates by then" and then with a smile he saluted.
"Yes sir"
I smiled and returned the action in full confidence.
The ride back over the moors that afternoon was the fastest that to this very day I had experienced. But it took more than the usual exertion that evening to open that wood shed and once more sling the old bicycle in, I was exhausted.
The days of the coming week once again rained hard, even for April on the coast of Devon, yet it must have been in a sort of knowing inclination to the up and coming tragedy, the intensity of which I was at that point in time far from understanding. Saturday became dry, but a cold one after the past weeks weather. I needed to wear gloves and my winter coat for that hour of the morning, as Corporal Wainwright had ordered me in for 7.00 a.m. and that meant me leaving at 6.00 a.m., all very dark and early and with no bicycle lights! Down the long curving hill that lead into Chudleigh and on through the village. Healthy warmth had now enshrouded my once cold body and I began to become excited at the upcoming day as the Heathfield Barracks came into sight ahead.
I stopped in the self-proclaimed official dom of confidence at the guard house to sign with the gate M.P. Then to me a strange sense of eeriness enshrouded the military base. For no personnel were to be seen from one end to the other.
"Spooner?" said the guard in a low strange tone.
"Yes sir" I replied.
"Spooner, Sgt. C. McKinnon no longer requires your assistance" he spoke with the same eeriness that I was experiencing. But now I was in total shock I had no comment to reply with. The guard handed me a green American five dollar note, an item I had never seen before and again only read about of in the Marvel comics. Then he spoke.
“Sgt. McKinnon wishes me to thank you for your dedicated attendance in recent days and for you to have your pay from last week”
Totally bewildered I stretched out my hand and took the “greenback” promptly pocketing it and then looked around. Due to the sudden shock, my body was incapable of movement, frozen in stature a lengthy silence ensued of what felt like a lifetime.
Then breaking the stillness the M.P. spoke.
"Move on John" he said with a tremor in his voice and a strange look in his eyes. Even at the age of fourteen I could distinguish that something wasn't right, that much I could tell. For all of my limited naïve Devonshire exposure to the world, what was I missing? Squinting into the early mornings` sun I saw the movement of construction vehicles off in the distance where the lines of Sherman tanks used to sit in green pride. I dropped my bicycle into the grass verge and hung on to the rusty chain link fence with the fingers of both hands so that I could get a better look at the mysterious goings on that I was currently witnessing. A backhoe digger was gouging out the ground where the tanks used to be and a crane was individually placing, like personal coffins, the thirty or so remaining motorcycle crates deep into the ground. Then after a short while the handful of men, assisted by the backhoes, proceeded to fill in the shovelings of the day until level. Then that was that....nothing more occurred. One by one all the engines had been turned off and the men had slowly returned to the barracks. This opposing quiet suddenly and unorthodoxly left me with what seemed like the long, horrible, cold, world of silence only to be experienced by a deaf person, broken into occasionally by the chirping from hedge sparrows flying back and forth along the top of the grass verge in the mornings` sun.
I strained my neck at an angle in order that I might possibly get a clearer view of the inside of the warehouse where I had been working the weekend before. It was completely empty, it contained nothing. In dazed confusion I looked at my watch to make sure that I wasn’t too late, it had just past ten thirty-five.I mounted Steves` bicycle once again and this time slowly and coldly rode for the last time back through the village of Chudleigh back to Teignmouth.
On the night of Tuesday April 27/28th 1944 at 11.00 hours a combined American Army and Navy special maneuver known as Operation Tiger was undertaken from the beaches of Slapton Sands near Dartmouth in Devon. Slapton Sands was to be used as the representation for the now famous Omaha beach simulation site for the upcoming planned D-Day landings of June 3rd 1944. It comprised of eight Destroyers, four Minesweepers and three American style M.T.B. boats as an allied troop patrol support flotilla in the applied action. The simulated attack on Torcross and Slapton Sands also included sixty-eight Landing Crafts of soldiers, Sherman Tanks, Army trucks and their relative supporting heavy artillery for the action. It was to be a live ammunition operation. Unknown to this planned attack was that earlier on in the evening a nine German S-boat wolfpack had set out on their standard nighttime patrol from the then German occupied port of Cherbourg in France. The S-boats were 35 metres in length with a crew of 21. They were powered by triple shaft Daimler-Benz diesel engines with a top speed of 35 knots but on the night of April 27/28 the nine S-boats involved were supercharged which increased their horsepower from 4500 to 6000 and their top speed to 40 knots. They were equipped with twin 21 inch fixed forward facing torpedo tubes with two reloads and two or three 20mm canons and occasionally a 37mm canon or other similar armament. Once witnessed and identified the German E Boats attacked in full force. With complete surprise the Americans were caught and defeated in just minutes, without an American shot being fired in retaliation. Most of the flotilla was lost, together with the tragic total of five hundred and fifty one Americans dead or missing in action.
The warehouses at Heathfield that had been temporally used as an American military base during that time were then to stand empty in abandonment and the grounds overgrown for the years that past since that spring in 1944. Until in 1970, when they were purchased and transformed into an engineering manufacturing facility known as Centrax Gears. Today, it can be found as one of the first buildings built that still exists in what’s known as The Heathfield Industrial Estate.Since then two professional attempts have been made to find the missing crates containing the Harley Davidson motorcycles, but to no avail. They all still lay buried somewhere deep in that rapidly undertaken secret location. Slapton Sands offers annual holidaymakers, some of them older Americans revisiting the site of memory, its pleasures every summer without fail. To the people knowledgeable of its history, Torcross offers one of the original surviving American Sherman tanks from that horrendous night proudly mounted on a memorial plinth in respect, yet sadly tucked away at the back corner of the beach's` car park. Despite the many thoughts given to the reader throughout this entire story, it was however not about myself, but based on a story told to me by a man bearing the name of John Spooner. After the war was over John was apprenticed as a Toolmaker with a local company in Newton Abbot, Devon known as Centrax. In 1969 I also became apprenticed with Centrax and John Spooner was assigned to teach me throughout the five years of my Tool making apprenticeship. After telling me this story in bits and pieces over a period of a months towards the final days of my indentured term, he with pride, reached into the bottom drawer of his toolbox and proudly produced the five dollar American “green-back” that he earned that day and had kept as a memento since. He then passed its ownership on to me for safe keeping on the promise, between men, that I would always cherish it in the honour and respect of the five-hundred and fifty-one men that died that night. Noting the five dollars relativity to the five-hundred and five units of humanity lost. John died in 1983 of lung cancer, but here today I am still the proud possessor of that American five-dollar bill and cherish its part of both England and Americas` combined history. This story is written in memory and dedication of this man…. Mr. John Spooner.
Nick Osgood
Axis History
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