1000 Men, 1000 Stories : Article: "Stout Heart Required in War-Time England"

Stout Heart Required in War-Time England

By Doug Harrison, RCNVR and Combined Operations, 1941 - 1945

Raw recruits in Hamilton, 1941 (above), are seasoned veterans in England, 1942

[This article was first published in the Norwich Gazette, circa 1992]

During the couple of years I was in Britain during the Second World War, I enjoyed more than my fair share of leave. When I wasn’t in training on landing craft or on an invasion, I was usually in London or Glasgow. Most often I was in London where I had relatives.

While training in England and being granted leave I stated on my ‘leave chit sheet’ that my destination was Glasgow. This earned me two extra days for travel. Then I just hopped into London where I always stayed at the Westminster YMCA for a couple of shillings a night. It was across the road from the Abbey, and I could hear Big Ben sounding the hours. When training in Scotland I did the reverse and put my destination as London, and claimed two days leave. (No vices, no virtues.) Had I been caught in this swindle I probably would still be singing the Prisoner’s Song, staring through the bars of some dark navy dungeon with my fingers bleeding from picking oakum.

"Poor Private Ewing. Singing the Prisoner's Song and picking oakum"

Inside the Military Prison, Edinburgh Castle, 2014

There was method in navy madness. While on leave the navy did not have to feed me. I paid for my own meals and I could inflict my own form of punishment on London or Glasgow.

My friends whispered in my waiting ear about a pub up the way from the Y, and that I should visit it the next time in London. “This is not your average hole-in-the-wall pub,” they told me. I liked travelling in London alone and unhindered and at night. It is true I’m sure, that a person could live in London all his life and not see it all.

The next time I was in London I prepared myself for the Lord High Admiral pub. The clocks, during war-time in England, were set ahead at least two hours so I had plenty of time to walk the long mile up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square where my boyhood hero, Lord Nelson, stood on the tall column, guarded by his faithful lions, and where people milled about feeding large flocks of pigeons. Nearby was St. Martins in the Fields, and Canada House, where I could call to see if there was any mail from home. A fleet mail office was set up there for the Canadian sailors and it was staffed by Canadian girls - a reminder of ‘home sweet home.’ Close by also was the Beaver Club, an all-Canadian service club and oasis, where substantial meals were served at all hours by volunteer ladies. There was a staircase on either side of the entrance to the Beaver Club which led to a large landing. Many times I leaned on the bannister watching the entrance for Norwich boys and did visit with several.

A news clip from the Norwich Gazette, April 30, 1942

Upon completing a meal at the club I walked back to the Y, tidied up, and then started up the way toward the Lord High Admiral. It wasn’t dark yet, but I have vivid memories of Old London at night; amber street lights, seemingly long distances apart, tripping on the curbs up to the sidewalks, hundreds of people walking silently and little chatter, gaiety or laughter. One fear, I suppose, was that we might awaken an enemy airplane. War was serious business for each and every one of us. There were weak, grotesque shadows cast upon the nearby walls whenever we passed a street light. Then it was completely dark again. Who could forget it? What those stout-hearted people endured night after night, clinging to the hope of better days and that the lights would come on again.

The taxis were not so quiet with their dim headlights reaching into the dark, and they seemed to go a mile-a-minute. The daring drivers knew the roads like the back of their hands. It was to risk your life to cross the street. Taxis owned the roads at night, speeding past buses, horns honking, careening around corners with screeching tires as if there was no tomorrow. They never stopped; the buses, however, gave up about midnight.

‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ according to the old song, and it was even further to The Lord High Admiral. At long last, just after dusk, I reached the blackout curtains and stepped into the lighted bar. My friends were right. This was not a hole-in-the-wall pub. This was a big place with a piano covered with beer mugs, a built-in player sitting on his piano stool under a blanket of smoke which reached down to sting his eyes. The first song that greeted me from the group of young service men and women at the piano was ‘Happy Days are Here Again.’ The lyrics, in part, went like this:

Happy days are here again, blue skies above are clear again,
Let’s sing a song of cheer again. Happy days are here again.

All together shout it out, there’s no one who can doubt it now,
So let’s tell the world about it now. Happy days are here again.

Songs such as this were good therapy during the Second World war. We could use some like it now during these hard times.

* * * * *

The above article begins, in part, with the lines, 'When I wasn’t in training on landing craft or on an invasion, I was usually in London or Glasgow. Most often I was in London where I had relatives.' I include this second article here, also written by my father, Doug Harrison (for his local paper, the Norwich Gazette, circa 1992), because it pertains to a Christmas dinner enjoyed with relatives in London, 1942.

Canadians in Combined Ops were involved in the invasion of North

Africa six weeks before sitting down to Christmas puddings, 1942

Christmas Pudding Came from Canada

[Norwich Gazette editor’s note: The Gazette has had on file several articles written by Doug Harrison before his death. So many people enjoyed his work, that we will be publishing the remaining articles.]

Dear Editor: I don’t know how to start this article but I must try. I am in the U.K. and moving from the Norwich, England area to London, England near Christmas Day, 1942. I was on leave and staying with my aunt (mother’s side) and uncle. I introduce them as Aunt Nellie and Uncle Wally.

A couple of friends came and five sat down to a great Christmas dinner complete with the English tradition of burning the pudding. The blinds were all drawn and the burning pudding made a nice sight. This was a first for me and I was a wee bit afraid at the opening explosion of rum.

The dinner ends, the dishes are put away, the friends depart and the three of us make ready to walk to South Kensington rail yard where work goes on, Christmas day and all. Remember there is a war and England is expecting an invasion. Uncle Wally works at the rail yard. But first we make a short pit stop at the South Kensington pub for a pint or two of ale, a few cracks at the dart board and off to work. It was quite a walk so Aunt Nellie and I took a bar stool and asked the Governor (owner) for a couple of pints. She gave Uncle Wally a peck on the cheek and he was off into the night through the black out doors. Aunt Nellie and I got to the singing stage, pushed our way through the canvas blackout doors and headed for home.

"In 2014, I was unable to locate the South Kensington rail yard or pub" (GH)

It was very dark, not a light to be seen except the amber coloured pole lamps. In the shadow of tall buildings it was darker still. We were almost unaware where we were going at times. Aunt Nellie and I walked arm in arm and without any notice she started singing a First World War song. My mother had taught me many WWI songs and soon we were singing song after song. Our mood was good and as we closed in on home, in a quiet moment I thought, we belong to London and London belongs to us. All is so quiet.

At the apartment we were met by the bomber alarm, a little wire-haired terrier. Dogs usually gave the alarm two or three minutes in advance of incoming planes. It was a busy day and I was soon sawing logs at 107 Emlyn Gardens, Shepherds Bush, Hammersmith, London, England.

Aunt Nellie lived to be 94 and I visited her twice. She was always thankful that my mother sent the ingredients (except for the rum for the burning) for the Christmas pudding in ’42.