Memories of World War II

It was about three in the morning and we were thinking that the raid was just about over when we heard the distant sound of an aircraft which, as the noise became progressively louder, was obviously either circling or descending slowly from the sky.”

This year marked the 75th anniversary of VE Day, 8th May 1945, the long-awaited day when fighting against Nazi Germany came to an end in Europe. Millions of people had been hoping and praying for the day to come, huge crowds gathered outside Buckingham Palace and celebrations took place all over the country. But VE Day was also a moment of great sadness and reflection, millions of people had lost their lives or loved ones in the conflict. Many were still fighting in battles continuing around the world and more were being held as prisoners of war abroad. Two hundred and fifty OUs gave their lives during the War and it had a far-reaching impact on millions of others. Earlier this year, we documented an array of stories in the OU e-newsletter, ‘The Colonnade’, which was published in June. It featured OU heroes who represented their country, and indeed their School, with pride and honour during World War II (available to read on the OU website). We are grateful to those of you who wrote to us with your memories and families’ experiences of the War, all of which provide a valuable record for the School archives and can be read on the OU website. Julian Wiltshire (H 48) shared his story of being evacuated in 1940, and his account really does transport you back in time...

From Surrey to Cornwall: September 1940

By Julian Wiltshire (H 48)

I was not amongst the first groups of children who were evacuated from London to safer parts of the country. Many evacuees found themselves sent away from home as early as the late summer of 1939, before the war started in September, and the numbers increased greatly in the last months of that year, the government being under the impression that London was under immediate threat. But London was not bombed in the first 10 months of the conflict – a period now described as the ‘phoney war’ – and a great many evacuees returned to their homes, their parents hoping that the threat had passed. However, by June 1940 the Germans had defeated the British Expeditionary Force and had established airfields along the coast of France from where they could launch their bombers and fighters in large numbers for raids on London, less than 100 miles away. These terrible raids started in the early summer and the resulting ‘Battle of Britain’ lasted until September. Despite the fact there were no lights to guide the German aircraft, since the windows of all houses and offices had been blacked out for more than a year – everyone on the bombers’ flightpath became aware within days that there was no hiding place, with bombs falling indiscriminately throughout the city and the suburbs. And this is where the story of my evacuation begins, as my parents, like so many others, were forced to consider some means of escape for their children. In our case, we had the additional misfortune of living at Caterham, high up in the Surrey Hills, about 15 miles from central London, and very close to two of the most important fighter airfields, Kenley and Biggin Hill, which the German bombers were keen to put out of action from the start. As a result, the days and nights were full of the horrific noise of battle – droning bombers, screaming fighter planes, heavy anti-aircraft guns, explosions and machine-gun fire – whilst at night there was the additional frightening glare of flares, searchlights and flaming houses. An approaching raid would be heralded by the dreadful wail of a warning siren, a sound which swooped up and down, and sent everyone running to the nearest shelter. This might be followed sometime later by the same siren sounding the ‘all clear’ on a single penetrating note, but in August and early September the intervals between the raids were scarcely noticeable. Many evacuations, as in my case, were organised by schools; but it was August, the schools were on holiday, and nothing could be finalised before the start of term. It could be said, without exaggeration, that the delay for me, and my mum and dad, was almost fatal. We had no shelter either in the house or the garden and had to run to our neighbour’s garden when the siren went. Overhead there were desperate dogfights in the sky as the Spitfire and Hurricane pilots climbed at full throttle in an attempt to get above the Messerschmitts so that they had a better chance of shooting them down. Meanwhile Dorniers and Heinkels piled through the clouds with the peculiar and unforgettable throbbing drone of their engines, and you could see the sticks of bombs falling as they released their loads.

Almost at ground level, other German fighters roared in with cannons blazing to strafe the streets. The noise and danger and the myriad of flashes and garish lights were indescribably frightening, and especially so, perhaps, to a small child. (I have never since wished to watch a war film – in some sense they come nowhere near the reality, and in another sense too close for comfort.) The culminating experience, before I was sent away, came in mid-August, at about the time of my mother’s 39th birthday – and it was hardly a celebration. A heavy raid was in progress and 12 of us were packed into a concrete shelter at the end of the garden of a friend’s house, just round the corner from our home. It was about three in the morning and we were thinking that the raid was just about over when we heard the distant sound of an aircraft which, as the noise became progressively louder, was obviously either circling or descending slowly from the sky. Soon it became clear that it was falling towards us, my mother wrapped a blanket round my head in an attempt to muffle the inevitable explosion, but when it came, the sound was immense. The bomber – a Heinkel – had fallen on the house in whose garden we were sheltering, just 30 yards away. The building was completely destroyed, flames shot into the air, the heat of the blaze

Julian Wiltshire in Tintagel, Cornwall, 1940 A newspaper cutting from the night of the bombing

driving us from the shelter. Somehow we got away, but I still remember parting the blanket, seeing the huge fire and feeling the searing heat – and I still have a picture of the destroyed house which appeared in the press the following day. Meanwhile, Surrey County Council had made arrangements for the evacuation of children from Caterham, and, as a result, I found myself at Paddington Station in mid-September with five other small boys. I was not quite six, and obviously had very little idea of what was happening. But there I was on the platform, in blazer, cap and tie, carrying a small suitcase – including a teddy bear which I still have – and round my neck the compulsory gas mask, in its square box with a green canvas cover. My mother held my hand, saw me into the carriage and waved goodbye – a wartime image captured in a thousand photographs. Our destination was Tintagel, a village perched on the precipitous cliffs of the north Cornish coast, and famous for its ruined castle mythically associated with King Arthur. Of the journey I remember nothing, and recollections of a puffing steam train with its trail of billowing smoke probably come from a later time when I travelled to my next school in north Worcestershire. In fact memories of the whole 20 months of my evacuation experience would be negligible at this distance in time, were it not for the fact that my mother kept all the letters – 52 of them – which I wrote home during my

time in Cornwall. I could, therefore, tell a more complete story, and have done just that for my family. Suffice it to say that – in common with the other evacuees who came here in the War and attended Kingston Deverill School – I was incredibly fortunate in being looked after by a loving and caring family (not always the case for evacuees who were often, at best, merely tolerated and who couldn’t wait to return home). I will always remember that couple with affection, and indeed Tintagel itself where the cliffs encapsulate a particularly distinctive memory. Incredibly high and falling sheer to the sea, they are a formidable sight in the summer, let alone the winter – and in that winter of 1940, to stand on the top as a small boy in the howling wind, with the breakers pounding on the rocks below and the spray flying high into the air, was an unforgettable experience. Here was the power of nature in all her raw and frightening fury. At home there was a different kind of man-made terror. Our destination was Tintagel, a village perched on the precipitous cliffs of the north Cornish coast, and famous for its ruined castle mythically associated with King Arthur.”

It’s thought that more than 2,000 OUs saw service during World War II and there were rare instances when they crossed paths. One such occasion was the OU dinner held in Thailand’s Chungkai P.O.W. camp on 18th April 1944. The original hand-drawn menu card below is deposited in the School Archives, courtesy of William Christopher (M 60) whose father, Maj. Thomas Christopher (M 1926), was in attendance with fellow OUs: Lt. Col. John Stitt (LH 1912), Maj. John McLaren (F 1918), Lt. James Twitchin (F 1926), Lt. John Leckie (L 1926) and Lt. Ernest Charles (SH 1933). The menu card was clearly lovingly prepared, with remarkable skill and attention to detail, particularly considering the lack of available materials at that stage of their imprisonment, some two and half years after their capture. It is doubtful the meal lived up to its description or to the spirit of fellowship in which it was eaten. What an incredible and moving record of OU solidarity in extremely difficult times.

Uppingham 1952, John Robinson (H 47), Julian Wiltshire (H 48) and Richard Fordham (H 47), winners of the Henry Ley Cup

Julian & Anne Wiltshire on a visit to the School in October

Julian arrived at Uppingham in 1948, a move encouraged by his parents based on the School’s reputation for musical excellence, and he was fortunate to coincide with Douglas Guest as a teacher. Whilst in The Hall, Julian joined forces with John Robinson and Richard Fordham (both H 47) highly talented musicians, to form ‘The Hall Trio’; with Julian on the piano, the group performed many concerts in the four years they were together. After Uppingham, rather than taking up a musical career, Julian studied English Literature (including Anglo-Saxon) at Queen’s College, Oxford. After two years of National Service in the Royal Signals, he went on to operate a successful tour company from London, organising tours for young travellers to ski resorts in Austria, Switzerland and Italy, and summer destinations in the Mediterranean. Seventeen years later, he took up a post as travel manager for students and staff at Edinburgh University, where he married Anne, had two children, and finally moved to Wiltshire where they’ve lived for the past 35 years. Julian has had a love of music all his life and is still singing and playing. After retirement in 2006 at the age of 72, he embarked on tours of all 47 of the London city churches; enjoyed walks round the entire county boundary of Wiltshire; along the Kennet and Avon canal; and another along the Thames, starting at Avonmouth and finishing at the Thames Barrier. He has also written a book entitled ‘Kingston Deverill, a south-west Wiltshire Village’ published in 2016 by the Hobnob Press, directly inspired by his involvement in Anglo-Saxon language and history while at Oxford, and available on Amazon.