88 Christmas/Hogmanay at War 2022 WW2

Me outside Guildford Arms Edinburgh

Guildford Arms interior

James Papalia with Dad Frank, scary war story writer

Genius at work!

Christmas card received from Canadian Leslie Buehler

Christmas car sent to Cyril Stead of 6th Airborne Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment

Shrapnel that wounded Bill Cheall

Fighting Through Podcast WW2 Episode 88 – Christmas at War 2022 WWII

Fighting through is a regularly recommended WWII memoirs podcast

More great unpublished Christmassy with WWII military history podcasts

Intro Passage ww2 memoirs

When we said we would have to be going they

insisted upon shaking hands and almost in unison asked: ‘Tell ye what, laddies, can

ye nay come tae oor Hogmanay on New Year’s Eve?

Intro Passage  ww2 history

The young soldier said to me "I am with the British Green Howards and we are trying to get to Dunkirk but the Germans have us trapped here.

Intro Passage  wwII history

FT listeners have made over 180 contributions directly to the Salvation army and red cross Ukraine appeal

Intro Passage  wwII history

The Italians had been in running battles with the English and when they woke up on Christmas day they could smell … Turkey.

Welcome to this ww2 podcast

Voted one of the best military history podcasts by 5000 regular listeners

Hello again and another WW2 yuletide welcome to the Fighting Through second world war podcast. 

I’m Paul Cheall, son of Bill Cheall whose WWII memoirs have been published by Pen and Sword – in FTFDTH. 

The aim of this podcast is to read family stories, memoirs, and interviews with veterans in all the countries and all the forces. I dare you to listen!

Today, we celebrate another Christmas at war and indeed Hogmanay, with a stocking absolutely bulging with seasonal tales of guns and goodwill.

Bernie Walker has sent in two splendid family stories with an Australian and Italian flavour

Facebook visitors support my detective work in tracking down the Scottish pub that Dad visited at Hogmanay in December 1943.

And hear another Spooky or What story from young Captain James Papalia’s ghostly adventure series.

Hear the story of how my Dad got wounded in Normandy and what made his recovery so utterly complete.

Learn how some young American soldiers were treated to British hospitality on Christmas.

And much more.

And just to remind you, if you want to fill your December with a catch up on all the previous Christmas episodes for this podcast, you can access them easily by clicking on the episodes item on the website menu and selecting Christmas! And I for one cannot wait. It’s what December is for!

Here’s your starter story:

It'll be Over By Christmas – 1940

I remember when the war started and our next door neighbour Minnie Landon panicking about the blackout.

The first time we heard a siren we all raced into the downstairs passage with our gasmasks, where we stood and waited and waited, for ages and ages, for something to happen. Eventually we all went back to bed and found out later that what we’d heard had been the all clear!

People used to say “It’ll be over by Christmas” and “Don’t worry the Germans have got wooden tanks.”

Of course it was all very naïve. In the spring of 1940, around May, I remember my dad saying “we’re in trouble now” after the collapse of France just before Dunkirk.

That’s a story from Ron Jennings of Kidderminster that I found rummaging around on the BBC PW web site.

Right now, a bit of listener feedback, so here’s just a few snippets … firstly from seemingly exotic climes

Feedback 1 Sean Paul says,WW2

I work in Tanzania on the Serengeti plains and your podcast helps keep me informed and always learning new stories about my favorite history subject. Thank you for all the time you put into your podcast!

Feedback 3 Allen Morin World War Two

… says it's good to know that the memories of these fighters are not forgotten. 

As always, America tips its hat to our cousins, The Brits! Feeling’s mutual Allen.

Feedback 4 Leigh Second World War

I look forward to getting my headphones on and listening at 7 every single morning. Leigh Pearson, USA.”

I’ve got a few BBC people’s war stories to share with you throughout the episode and I think it’s timely to share the next one, because a lot of reminiscences relate to the period of the Blitz during the Battle of Britain when London and other cities were being bombed by the Germans. This would have been over the period Sept 1940 to May 41, so dampened our Christmas spirit somewhat, though it’s clear we had plenty of spirit left over from Dunkirk to see us through. It’s interesting that even though London and many other cities such as Coventry and Liverpool took some heavy punishment from the bombing, it came absolutely nowhere near to defeating us.

More than 40,000 civilians were killed by Luftwaffe bombing during the war, almost half of them in London, where more than a million houses were destroyed or damaged. ^Wikipedia

Here’s just one story.

Bombing Over Christmas

A story that will live with me for life, I was about 6 years of age and with my parents we walked about 2 miles to my grandparents house in Holloway, Islington, London.

It was the usual family gathering over Christmas and all the members of the family were gathered around the piano which one of my Uncles was playing. No TV in those days –

pause

and all of a sudden there was a tremendous bang - the lights went out, the windows were blown out. The old Victorian House shook. When all the family had recovered we went outside and found our house was about the only one standing. My parents and I had walked past rows of houses on our way to my grandparents and now all that was here was dust and bricks.

What started out to be a Happy Christmas family reunion ended in us all thinking how lucky we were to be alive - when most of the neighbours all around us were not.

Ken Salmon

Islington, London

Feedback 5 AMY WHITEHEAD

Amy Whitehead from Huddersfield has been so very kind in her comments and she summed up beautifully by saying “I could (and often do) listen all day!

“The first episode I listened to was ep.85 about Bill Turner and the Cockleshell Heroes and from then on I was hooked! Also by pure chance I am originally from Marple, Stockport so learning about Bill was particularly interesting, then hearing about Loz Moore, a name I know from Marple, was just fantastic.

Listener, Former soldier Loz Moore was featured in episode 85 for retracing the steps on the Cockleshell Heroes mission – in fact nearly 20 FT listeners clicked on the link in that episode to contribute to his effort to raise money for the British Legion.
Amy continued - It's wonderful to have your website to find out more about each episode. I love putting a face to the name/voice on the interview episodes, and the research links are useful and photographs also wonderful.

I have just finished listening to Sgt Fred Reynard's Gallipoli memoirs - ep 16. I can't really put into words the effect it had on me. Never have I listened to such an account and never have I been so moved. I think the closest I have felt to listening to this was when visiting Normandy with my Grandad. What an insight indeed, and how grateful I am that Fred wrote down those words and managed to post them home.

And Amy has generously sponsored me on Patreon, which monies will go to the Sally Army.

She has a family story or two of her own “My Great Grandfather Cyril Stead was in the 6th Airborne Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment “A" squadron, which was the Light Tank Squadron.

Although I never met him, I am the proud custodian of all of his WWII paperwork/ /postcards and photographs, and I spend my spare time researching his war. I visited Normandy with my Grandad, his son, we went on a D-Day landings tour which was utterly fascinating if not emotional. I wish I could have met my Great Grandad, but listening to your podcast makes me feel a little closer to him in a strange way... I think maybe because I feel as though I can understand his experience a little better through hearing about other people's.

I have already told quite a few people about the podcast, and I have asked my husband for your Dad's book for Christmas! Ooooh we’ll have to see what Santa brings Amy.

One thing that comes to mind is a wonderful postcard written to my great grandad from a comrade Ernie Knowles who was a POW at Stalag 357 in Germany. I have long been trying to track down Ernie’s family but to no avail.

The postcard reads as follows:

It starts “Dear TOM – Amy and I grappled over why a letter clearly to Cyril was addressed to Tom and we concluded that Tom was short for Tommy Gun – a nickname – sounds to me like Cyril might have been a good scrapper or handy with a Thompson submachine gun.

He continues

“I'd have written before but cards are scarce. I'm not doing so badly here considering where I am. Could do with some discreet news if possible. Have met no one I know so far. Wheatley + Ainslie were wounded but were OK last I saw them in June. Hope everyone else got through OK. Regards to Benny + Steve. Had no mail from home yet, but hoping. Getting a game of draughts now and then. Look after yourself. Good luck. Ernie"

Dated 7 Nov 1944, post marked 17 Nov, delivered, dare I say, just in time for …. Christmas! How good that must have been to hear from a pal who was incarcerated in a POW camp.

So, if anyone has any information on Ernie Knowles of the 6th Airborne Armed Reconnaissance Regiment, get in touch. Ernie probably made it back home eventually but I wonder if he knew when he posted the card that 5 months earlier the allies had been storming up the Normandy beaches on their way to freeing Europe from oppression. I wonder if there was a reply to his postcard which gave him news in the discrete fashion he requested, that the Yanks, Canucs, Brits and other allies were on their way. Good boys!

And Amy I guess you know that your GF’s regiment played a significant role on D-Day around the famed Pegasus Bridge region. We’ll save the story of that for another time though because I know you’re still doing your research. But I for one cannot wait to learn more. And you’ve managed to dig up a brilliant memoir from one of the soldiers that Cyril mentioned in his will, so that’s one I’m saving up for another time too.

It's funny that Amy emailed me when she did because, right on cue, just before this episode, she came up with a great little wartime anecdote which fits in perfectly with the spirit of some of the stories I’m telling.

She says

“I used to be an "Activities Organiser" in a residential care home and one of the residents became a dear friend of mine. Her name was Thelma and she used to tell me tales of when she lived in London during the war. She told me how a house in her street was bombed and she was evacuated from her house by firefighters. She said she was desperately trying to get back into her house and the firefighters thought that she must be desperate to get inside to retrieve a child or some other relative, and she told them "No, I want my tea trolley! I've been saving up my tea and sugar rations for months now and I'm not letting them go!" She had been saving them for her husband, hoping he would have leave soon, or better still return for good. Such a lovely, and very funny lady :) I met quite a few veterans and civilians who lived through the war. It was truly fascinating.

Amy what a truly lovely story and thanks for sending it to me. And this would clearly have been in 1940 around the time of the Blitz. And I’ll bet it was near Christmas too!!

As it’s Christmas, I’ll just share with you a Christmas card that Amy copied me in on. It’s a photograph of the regiment of her great grandfather Cyril. It’s quite fascinating that during a time of war regiment would send its soldiers a Christmas card, but maybe it’s more common than I think. It’s sent from the airborne light tank squadron, first airborne division and is annotated “later, recce regiment, sixth airborne division “what a nice souvenir! There’s a copy in the show notes 

Amy’s husband Tom had a family story too.

“I just got to episode 4 with veteran Wilf Shaw. What a guy he seems. I felt very emotional and almost ashamed when you asked him if it was all worth it. It threw a massive dose of perspective on the world we live in today. It also struck a cord with me when you were talking about having battle scars and made me think of my own grandad.

I actually lost my grandad a couple of years ago who served in the conflict in Aden when he was 18.

The Aden Emergency (1963-67) was an insurgency against British rule in the south of the Arabian Peninsula. The unrest hastened British plans for withdrawal and marked the end of 20 years of decolonisation.

He actually lost his arm when he was 19 when an enemy vehicle ran the canvas back truck he was riding in off the road, rolling it and crushing his arm in the process - so they amputated it just below the shoulder. I was told as a kid he lost it wrestling a crocodile but I think the actual story was more interesting. He was known as Happy Whitehead because of his jolly nature and went by the name Happy his whole life.

Link

Talking about Christmas, just for a moment, I’d like to give a quick plug for Dad’s book, I only have three first edition hardcopies left. Forget £45 on Amazon – yes, really. £25 including UK postage gets you a signed edition with a selection of souvenir photos and a Fighting Through bookmark. Outside of the UK the postage has almost become more than the cost of the book itself so you might be better trying other sources, but I’ll be happy to quote. £5 from the sale will go to the Salvation Army. Plenty of paperbacks available – links are on the book page on the menu at the FT ww2 website, or just check out Amazon and Ebay.

I’m still receiving surveys via the link on the home page:

Survey Stuff Dave Egerton UK

You have a 58 year old crying at times, laughing at others. I'm on episode 26. Way to go Dave!

Best WWII military history podcasts

Survey Comments – Andrew Foster, NZ Second World War

You have brought your father’s fantastic story to life. It would make a great mini-series, particularly as you have researched the early days in France with Major Petch as well as N Africa and the campaigns in NW Europe later on. I feel someone prominent could portray his experiences sensitively and accurately - Sam Mendes comes to mind... Andrew you mean Sir Samuel Mendes who includes, Jarhead, Skyfall and 1917 in his repertoire, amongst many others?

Wow, thanks Andrew, praise indeed for Dad’s story. It does seem to be evolving into an epic that keeps getting better. Is Sir Samuel listening I wonder.

TR

War stuff 1 Douglas Bader

Post Combat Report by Flt Lt Douglas Bader over Dunkirk.

Oof my word!

This was posted up by The France and Flanders Campaign 1940 Facebook

Of course Douglas Bader was probably the most famous fighter aces Britain had during the war. His name is legend and the movie is a must see, so to be able to read a flight report written by him is just amazing. Here goes.

Link

https://www.facebook.com/861551180637519/posts/pfbid02Dh4zf6aHzVYkV4HxgymXPGTRqGLcJMPXobxzrfS1yPCmiYbFXTx7NoUBfvA3D7Ltl/?d=n

War stuff 2 J Trigg Through German Eyes

For anyone who enjoyed my German eyes, episode a while back, featuring Jonathan Triggs book, D-Day through G German eyes, you might be interested to know that Angus Wallace of the World War 2 podcast recently interviewed Jonathan. So there’s a good opportunity there to link great published history with the man who wrote it.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/35eUciFLotazYwLQYPohde?si=BuTXcAcpROWUWcMJjVOmuw

War stuff 3 German music

And for anyone who enjoys that, rousing, thumping, oompah-pah-ing of German, marching songs, I stumbled across a Spotify playlist the other day which you might be interested in. I can’t play any now for copyright reasons, but there is a link in the show notes.

German playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3oIOBpOYlVxfsOyTx1XDvp?si=TC3XSiU8QL2EEOugaDF_6w

War Stuff BBC Rogue Heroes SAS WW2

Dubbed the icon of desert warfare, SAS Rogue Heroes is a new series on BBC1, tracking the conception of the famous British Special Air Services as it wreaks havoc behind enemy lines in the North African desert.

They start off a bit slow, with a couple of water pistols and half a dozen spark plugs and finish up with a fleet of jeeps with bulletproof windscreens nicked from aeroplanes, and with Vickers machine guns mounted on them. It just gets better and better. And the finale is just great, with leader Paddy Maine walking into the sunset promising even more madness and mayhem - in the next series!

So that’s SAS Rogue Heroes - If you have to, take out a years subscription to BBC IPLAYER  just to get this one series! 

Bill Cheall Hogmanay

Talking about Christmas, here’s a passage about Hogmanay, New Year’s Eve, from Dad’s book that you’ve not heard before. Dad was wounded in Normandy in June 1944, having landed on Gold Beach with the first wave on D-Day.

During his WW2 recovery, he was stationed at Glencourse camp just outside Edinburgh for a period and met some Scots men in a pub, leading to a hospitable Hogmanay with their families.

This is Dad’s story.

“Several of the lads had suffered leg wounds of different kinds and severity and we had to go for short steady walks, which gradually increased in length and pace, but fifteen miles was the limit until our legs became stronger. The nearest small town to Glencorse camp was Penicuik,[Penny Cook] which was two miles away, and since I had palled up with a Geordie we made several excursions into the town. But back then, in 1944, it was rather a quiet place and since it entailed a four-mile walk we

soon stopped that lark.

Our next off-duty trip was to Edinburgh,

which was ten or twelve miles away. Neither of us had been there before so thought

it might be interesting.

Bar sounds

Quiet music

It was a bitterly cold, second week in December and we

decided to go into a little pub in Princes Street for a shandy – it was cheaper than

beer and the old problem of financial embarrassment still plagued us.

Two men,  in their early forties, came and sat next to us and upon

hearing our accent started to chat. As they were Scots, I brought up the fact that I

was in 50th Division and that we always fought alongside 51st Highland Division.

That really set their tongues wagging and they wanted to know all about the 51st,

during which time they bought us a whisky, which almost burnt my throat since I

was not a drinker of spirits, anyway. When we said we would have to be going they

insisted upon shaking hands and almost in unison asked: ‘Tell ye what, laddies, can

ye nay come to oor Hogmanay on New Year’s Eve?’ Well, at that time, I don’t think

I knew what a Hogmanay was and they laughed and gave us a detailed explanation

of what it was all about. It sounded OK to us, but we would need a little time off

from camp, which was most likely impossible. We said we would meet the Scots in

a couple of days, same pub, same time.

Next day, I spoke to our NCO who seemed to have softened a little towards us.

I discovered that he was not a bad sort at heart and he said he would speak to the

Captain to try and fix an interview for my mate and me.

I was sent for next morning

and I told no fibs, just the facts, telling him about the Scots in the pub and I asked if we could be allowed to stay out overnight. He was silent for a while, then suggested

that since we were due for a three-day pass anyway, he would grant permission,

simply on the grounds that one night off camp would not be enough to recover from

a Hogmanay and were we sure we knew what we were doing? We had found a chink

in the rigid routine at Glencorse; it was not so bad, after all!

On New Year’s Eve We made the trip into Edinburgh to meet our two friends.

Bar sounds

We first went to

the same little pub for a drink, where the atmosphere was warming up ready for

the festivities.

The drink over, our host took us to one of their houses, where we

were introduced to his wife. As the evening wore on, more folk turned up, just

enough to make a sociable gathering. We were the only foreigners present and some

wanted to know about us.

Just to [hear] mention the 51st and 50th Divisions pleased them

enormously. To cut a long story short, by the time it was midnight we were just a

teeny-weeny bit [drunk] so-and-so, but not too far gone to hold hands and sing Auld Lang Syne. What happened after that I hadn’t a clue.

The mood of everybody was marvellous; all those Scots taking us two English

lads to their hearts, and they looked after us for the three days, then took us back

to camp. I had a very strong feeling that our Captain knew all about Hogmanay! It was now 1945.”

https://www.facebook.com/groups/243031579057598/permalink/6000651499962215/

Back to present day … a few weeks ago I was planning a family trip to Edinburgh and wondered what the chances were of tracking down the pub that Dad and his pal went to when they met the Scots lads. I was short of detail but I put together what information I had and posted it on the Edinburgh Past And Present Facebook page, along with Dad’s story, hoping I’d get one or two suggestions.

I posted – “I’m wondering if anyone can suggest which pub my dad went into on Princess Street during the war. I’m coming to Edinburgh next week and would like to toast his memory with a wee dram of the good stuff at a pub that he might just have gone in.

I guess there are lots of pubs on Princess Street but I’m looking for one that might typically have been frequented by servicemen and/or maybe at one end more likely than in the middle. Dad wouldn’t have had the money to spend on an extensive pub crawl!

I reckon the pub would have been close to one end of the street, maybe the end nearest to where public transport would have brought them from Glencorse camp. Paul.

Well, how could I have known what a deluge of suggestions, support, memories and anecdotes would flow from this enquiry.

Keep your sporran tightly fastened while I rattle off this little lot:

The first thing I was put right on more than once is that it’s not Princess St, but Princes Street – so duly noted for the third edition of Dad’s book!

Here goes with the traveller’s guide to Ye Wee Olde Edinburgh pubs!

Alan Baillie kicked the ball rolling:

I've no knowledge of there ever having been cosy wee pubs on Princes Street

David Lowe

At the very east end of P. St there are two old pubs that are just a very short spit away. The Cafe Royal and the Guildford

Andrew Cross shares an anecdote:

There was one story I heard about how there were so many different uniforms worn by visiting military, that 3 jokers got hold of waffen ss uniforms and walked along Princes Street, without being stopped.

Neil Lawrence

There was a big wooden hut at the side of the art galleries at the bottom of the mound during the war - it was a respite centre for the forces and had a canteen, pub, sleeping and washing facilities - might have been there.

Morag Macdonald-Worsley

Scott's bar in Rose Street is one of the oldest pubs....it would definitely have been in existence....quite an institution and a typical old "spit and sawdust" back in the day!

Irene Day

The Guildford has been there for years - my granny was a cleaner in there in the 30s.

Ian White

50th Div was based at Newcastle and contained many Scots from the Scottish Borders, including one John White, my uncle, from Castle Douglas. He was also in the first wave of landings on Gold Beach

Shirley Russell

A lovely reminiscence ...I can't enlighten you on the pub but I am from penicuik and my dad, who was from Leeds, met my mum whilst stationed at glencourse barracks around 1955 but his dad had died on Normandy beach...hope you find the pub your looking for

Carol Sutherland

What a lovely story I hope you find it but if not - any pub in Edinburgh will do. My brother in law was in the navy and he used to look up any Sutherlands abroad and tell them he was a relative and almost always got taken out for a meal!!

Suggestions turned to Rose street

Bob Cairns

Fascinating story but I don't think there were ever any pubs on Princes Street. The main street for pubs was Rose Street.

Gary McDonald

My wife's father talked of the pubs on Rose Street. He was with the Kings Own Scottish Borderers who landed on Sword beach and he was wounded at Caen. He also did time at Gencorse (as did I), so there is a bit of a tentative link. I'd suggest you go to any pub on Rose Street and raise a glass, as many old soldiers would have done anywhere along that street. Better still, just to be sure, raise a glass in every pub in Rose street. Chances are you will get the same experience, and not have a clue how it all ended up! Slainte – at least I thought it was Slainte – an obvious word for cheers, until I dutifully Googled it to find it was … Slanjervar! Ooh we’ve got another bit of FT slang. That’s a great word – Slanjervar!!

Lesley Gill

I asked my dad (soon to be 96 ) about this - He said there wasn’t a pub in Princes Street. But he does remember a hotel in Princes Street between the Mound and Jenners (he thinks) that was ‘taken over’ by American Servicemen and that’s where they seemed to congregate.

He thought the pub you’re talking about was maybe the Guildford Arms which is just off Princes Street? Hmm…

Shona Todd

What about climbing Arthurs seat and having a wee dram up there to, wrap up warm and enjoy the view of Edinburgh. Enjoy, but just make sure your nearly at the bottom before sunset or take big torches.

Louise Parker

Love the story 🥰 thanks for sharing

Enjoy your dram in Edinburgh

Stuart Ogston

Visit both the Guildford and the Cafe Royal

They are both lovely in their own way. The tiles in the Cafe Royal are stunning

Stephen McKay

My advice is to go into every single one mentioned on here - cover all the bases!

Hic!

Ian White

50th Div was based at Newcastle and contained many Scots from the Scottish Borders, including one John White, my uncle, from Castle Douglas. He was also in the first wave of landings on Gold Beach. He had an interesting Army Service, including getting left behind at Dunkirk alongside the 51st Div. He and some pals, made their own arrangements to return to Blighty, which pleased my Gran and Grandad no end as he had been officially posted missing! Then had some adventures in Tobruk, Sicily, Italy, France, Belgium and Holland [Operation Market Garden] before demob. I wonder if they knew your Dad?

Jackie Potter –

Can’t help with the pub but our Hogmanay partying and the hospitality shown to everybody has not changed if you want to share your dads experience 😂. Lovely memory .

Joe Walker THE GUILFORD STRAIGHT OVER FROM THE WAVERLY STATION STEPPS

Duncan Ramsay

Hans Kristian Hognestad

Kevin Cherry

Janice Scott

Alexander Harvey

How about The Guildford Arms that was always, back in the day, a gentleman’s bar!

Sean Bain

Margaret Mackenzie pretty much tied things up:

A delightful story, hope you find the right place. My dad was returning from a PoW camp in 1945 and landed in Edinburgh, he was trying to visit his penfriend (soon to be his wife) on the isle of bute, He had to get to Glasgow then to Wemyss Bay to catch a ferry. Allegedly it took a few pubs before they could find anyone who could help!

The Guilford was the last pub he remembered being in....has no recollection of the journey but on leaving the ferry found himself in Guilford Square once again seeking directions. Of all the pubs in Edinburgh this one would be my recommendation. Enjoy.xx

Margaret Mackenzie Aw thanks Margaret that’s a nice story too and probably pushes The Guildford past the finishing post. What was your Dad’s name?

Paul, Robert James Thorne. Born 1920 in Wellington Barracks.....an army brat.xx

OTHERS too many to mention but there’s a link in the episode notes if anyone wants to see the full discussion

Thanks everyone for such marvellous contributions. I’ve realised reading all the comments that dad used the term loosely and he very likely went to a small pub just off Princes St. Based on travel arrangements, I think it would be the East End. And a ‘small’ pub could well have been the Guildford. Anyway it looked nice enough so I settled on that. What a shame dad didn’t take a photo, but they could barely afford a shandy let alone a camera.

So, to confirm we did go to the Guildford

Upstairs bar with a view of downstairs over the balcony.

And I took some pics for my Dad – shownotes

Lovely old pub with the most amazing décor and really pretty close to Princes Street, which is no doubt what Dad remembered.

And needless to say I had several drams in honour of Dad, his unknown Geordie mate, and all you lovely people who have contributed to this pub hunt with such great suggestions and stories to go with them. Hooda thunk it?

Slainte

Slanjervar!

And thanks to Holly Wilson who was such a great waitress and recommending which drams to partake in – trouble is I had so many I can’t remember  - oh wait, yes I can – it was in memory of the late tank Capt Stan Perry who regaled us so well with his tales of daring do in his interview. I had more than one – yes - Laphroaig single malt – Slanjervar Stan!

I think, episode 36?

Music

Thanks also to the absolutely lovely people who contributed to that Facebook page and also to the people of Edinburgh for being just brilliant hosts to their tourists. And I can thoroughly recommend historic Edinburgh as a lovely place to visit. Everything is within reasonable walking distance and my personal highlights were the Castle with its military museums and much more, Mary Kings Close, an ancient underground street unchanged from medieval times and I’ll never forget the Guildford Arms pub and the wee drams I had which for a fleeting moment put me in my Dad’s shoes and whisked me back to 1944 Hogmanay and being looked after by those fantastic folk of Scotland.

TR

Christmas 1940 Anderson Shelters and spooky vision

Spooky music

Here’s a nice childhood memory

Mary Jackson

Birmingham

from BBC PAW

Everything had been prepared for Christmas Day and this Christmas Eve, we had had a party tea early, got ourselves washed and into socks, pyjamas, shoes and jumpers - and our hats, coats, gloves and pillows were to hand as usual … whilst we waited for the air raid sirens to start wailing!

By seven o'clock nothing had happened, so we continued to play about in the unaccustomed space of the living room. Mother, consulting Father, tentatively put hot-water bottles into beds, and at 7.30 made up the fire. The two little ones were put to bed and we were allowed to stay up late and listen to the wireless.

The city had done its best to show a festive spirit but of course there were no lights after dark, everyone was asked to conserve water and fuel, so the commercial side of Christmas was very poor compared with two years previously.

All was still peaceful at 8.30pm, so we were packed off to bed. It was strange going upstairs and climbing into a proper bed, without your jumper, your coat and your pixie hood and maybe even your gloves, which is what we’d normally have to do in the Anderson shelter which was were extremely cold and ran with condensation. But the bedroom was freezing cold too and you could feel the lino through your socks.

It seemed very bright outdoors and having put out the light, we lifted the blackout curtains and looked out. the moonlight was absolutely beautiful. The stars were brilliant and already the frost sparkled on the lawn, the hedges and the roofs. It was a true bombers' moon!

 Mother came up to tuck us in and found us kneeling at the window. It may have been the heart of industrial England but the tranquility of the scene was incredible.

Everyone knows that windows can produce bars of light through condensation and faults in the glass and out windows were not exception, but no matter how I moved my head and squinted the vision remained the same. I rubbed the window with my pyjama sleeve and it was still there.

I said "Mum there's a cross on the moon."
She said "No [darling] it's just the faults in the glass"

Joan could see it too, so even though the temperature was below zero, we pushed up the sash. There was this brilliant moon and over it an even more brilliant cross. We sat and looked at it, savouring the peace of it all, until Mother told us to get into bed before we caught cold. But she said it very quietly, kissed us goodnight and went downstairs.

Shortly afterward I heard the front door open and I think my parents must have gone outside together. I cannot remember Christmas Day but I do know we had no air raids anywhere in the country that night, but it was back to normal on boxing night when we heard the Junkers engines almost before the sirens.

There was never anything in the papers, either local or national about this event, but I cannot imagine that such a vision of hope in the midst of all the hardship and misery was granted only to two little girls and their parents.

Spooky or What?

After great feedback on last episodes Spooky or What story, written by 7yr old James Papalia, James Dad Frank has followed up with Chapter 2 of his son’s book of short stories. And this one even has a surprise Christmas theme to it”

Chapter 2. The secret getaway by James V Papalia – May 1940

Last time you might recall James was playing with his sisters in modern times and mysteriously found himself on Omaha beach, witnessing the American forces struggling to overcome the German defences. Just as they succeeded, he tripped and ended up somewhere new … but where was I, he asked.

Zap
I woke up in a foxhole but I was not in Stone Harbour. I looked for my family but they were not there. Instead I saw something different. I saw people speaking French, I heard British accents and saw a lot of scared soldiers. But where was I? 

I tried to talk to the soldiers but they were either too scared or did not speak English. As I walked around to figure out what was going on, the German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, shot at us. 

I was running with the soldiers away from the danger when a German Stuka came right for me. A soldier ran up to me and tackled me into the water. "Man you saved my life!" I said. 

"Son, what are you doing here? You are going to get killed," said the soldier

We ran from the Stukas and hid in a bomb crater. The British soldier asked me "Son, how did you get here?" I looked at him and said "Long story, how about you?" The young soldier said to me "I am with the British Green Howards and we are trying to get to Dunkirk but the Germans have us trapped here." 

I asked him "How did you get trapped?" He said "We came here and got pushed back and now there is nowhere left to run." He and I talked about the Escape Plan. He told me that Churchill was going to send lots of ships to get us out. As we spoke the ships began to arrive. 

Major Petch looked at the soldier and said "Our boat the Lady of Mann is here. Get going. "The soldier said to me, "Well I’d better get moving, are you going to be OK, son?”

I said to him “I will be just fine, by the way what is your name? The soldier looked at me and said “Bill Cheall. Do you think I will be home for Christmas?” I told him “Not this Christmas, but another one and you will have a great life. Good luck Bill”. As I got on board the Stukas returned and began to fire. I jumped in the water. When I came to the surface, I was somewhere new.

But where?!

James thank you once again for that spooky history lesson. I must admit I was really surprised when my Dad’s name came up and I thought it was so clever the way you did it. I’m copying in Sarah Parry the grand daughter of Captain Tom Woods of the Lady of Mann ship, because I just know she’ll be interested in what was going on the beaches whilst her GF was sitting in Dunkirk harbour waiting for the soldiers to arrive. And I know the Lady of Mann herself didn’t escape from the Stukas either. When she finally got back to England there was plenty of damage to repair so I think Dad and his pals were very lucky to get home safely. And of course one of the Lady of Mann lifeboats has been found and restored in recent times by Matt Cain so he be pleased to hear your story too.

James I was fascinated by your prediction that Dad wouldn’t get home for Christmas and it puzzled me, because he’s just about to get back to England on the Lady of Mann so surely he’ll be home for Christmas. This made me check Dad’s whereabouts upon his return and indeed James you were right – he might have been in England for Christmas but he didn’t get home, because most of 1940 he was down in the South of England guarding the coastline against an expected German invasion. In 1941 he was posted to the North of England to Richmond where his regiment the GH headquarters were. And right through 1942 Dad does not mention Christmas in his book, until he’s posted to the Middle East and finds himself on that magnificent ship, the Queen Mary. Here’s just a short passage from Dad’s book about how his Christmas 1942 went.

Queen Mary WW2 Bill Cheall

Dad and his pals embarked on a long journey through England and ended up in Scotland …

“We arrived at Glasgow early morning on 20 December. I had never been this far north before, or even to Scotland, so it was all new to me. People in those days just did not travel as they do today. From Glasgow, we travelled to Greenock on the Firth of Clyde and the docks were crowded with ships of all sizes.

It was a bitter cold morning and there was a slight mist. We were no sooner off the train than small boats were ferrying us towards the centre of the harbour to a very large ship, which dwarfed everything around it. To see the words Queen Mary on the bows of the ship was almost beyond my comprehension. It seemed almost impossible that we were to go overseas on such a majestic ship. I had never imagined that I would ever see the Queen Mary, let alone travel on it, and I felt very proud to be British.

We boarded the ship through wide doors at the side of this cavern of a ship and the size of the interior fascinated me. There were eleven decks, and fifteen thousand personnel were packed into it. Each party had its own quarters, and notices had been posted in the passageways, giving directions to those areas – on those long corridors and staircases one could easily get lost on the ship.

The decks had been covered with special flooring to give protection against our army boots, although when we had settled in we changed to denims and sandshoes. We each had a hammock and were rather crowded, but there was plenty of room on other parts of the ship. My two pals and I managed to get places near each other; Looking back to those days, we still did not know for where we were bound; this was the one time we could have been told because there was no danger of us telling anybody ashore – we just lived each day as it came.

We sailed on 23 December 1942 and without an escort, which surprised us, but we were told that the ship’s speed made it unnecessary. All I could feel and hear was the steady powerful throb of the engines and the rise and fall of the ship as we headed out into the Atlantic. It was not very long before we were feeling most miserable – anybody who has never been seasick cannot have a clue how rotten it makes one feel.

Despite the size of the ship, the speed of it was causing it to toss about quite a bit, consequently we were all very seasick and it was awful. For three days, I didn’t care whether I lived or died; that’s how bad it was. Christmas had been and gone before I recovered. I will never forget Christmas 1942. My best pal, John Bousfield, and another pal, Norman Young, had it really bad. I looked after them both, feeding them and putting them to bed, as the sickness can play havoc with your strength.
We gradually became used to the roll of the ship as it cut through the water, and began to explore the ship and only then realized how large it was.”
There we’ll leave Dad and his pals. If you want to learn more about his memorable voyage, check out episode 30, Queen Mary WW2 – or better still snap up a copy of his memoirs, FTFDTH.

Letters home from a POW - Lisa

Thanks to Lisa Loftis Springfield, Missouri for linking me to some letters sent home from a soldier in a POW camp.

This is a selection of Christmas letters sent by John Crook to his parents in 1943 and 1944, during his time as a PoW at Stalag Luft VIII-B camp.

12th December ‘43

My Dears: A very happy Christmas is in store for me after all, for I have received your first letter. So glad and relieved to learn you are well, and have survived the suspense of waiting for news of me. What with Red Cross Xmas parcels and plenty of fuel we shall do all right over the festive season. Very Xmassy weather – snow and ice.. Love from John.

TR

More Christmas news: Carols, “Messiah” band concert, cabaret, pantomime – everything in style. As you didn’t get my first card, I’d better repeat: Captured Salerno 10th Sept, with all the boys. Busy decorating our barrack with paper-chains etc.. Best love, John.

TR

20th December’43

Amidst the Christmas decorations I have at last found time to write you a line. So

intensely busy about rehearsals and writing parts, teaching Greek, cooking gelatine-and-chips, planning a chamber-music concert and acting as usual as a general confidant and receiver of everyone’s troubles, that only just before bed can I fit a letter in to my dearest ones! Anyway there’s no time to pine away.

You need not bother much about sending clothes: we’re pretty well set up. But cigarettes, if possible, because they are currency here, and one can obtain for them anything from a banjo to a tin of porridge. Last night conducted a string octet in “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik”,

very successfully.

Give my love to all the kind friends who were so concerned for my safety: and tell Sister Gerand I lost the medal with my identity discs from off my neck – thereby hangs a tale to tell when I come home.

26th December’43

Boxing Day: Had a good Xmas; pudding steak & kidney, jelly, cake, beer, and your second letter. What a lovely programme [it seems you had] at Maidstone! The Brahms is one of my favourites, also the Bach.  The boys are all very grieved about Doulton [passing]. He was with the Colonel and they were wounded together.

Best New Year wishes in hope of a speedy reunion. Capt. Williams was

adjutant of the 8th Battalion, so we know nothing of him. Don’t be surprised if you hear from Mrs Morgan, or Mrs Phillips, the mother of our fairy godfather here. Don’t put my army

1. on my address. God be with you always – your loving John.

Christmas Day 1944

My dear Mother and Father, In the midst of decorations, cakes (stalag-made), greetings and

whatever good cheer we can put into a prison camp at Christmas, and on a perfect day, dry, cold, sunny and with all the trees and wires covered in frost, I must just tell you how much I wish I were home, and how much I long to see your dear faces again. This is a brave effort: dances, concerts, parties, shows and band programmes, and everyone in their best khaki slacks and with their boots and buttons polished.

But everybody’s heart is really at home, and especially mine, because I love you both so much. I am still thinking and hoping how best to repay you for all your love and your confidence in me; and I trust to be soon home to start. I’ve had a very pleasant Christmas present, for my recognition papers here at last came through, and Dick Morgan’s as well. The Christmas show is The Yeoman of the Guard, with the RAF Choir and the Cambridge Orchestra, and some positively sumptuous costumes: a great deal of work has been put into it, and it has turned out a fine show, and could give points to most amateur dramatic societies. Once more all my love: remember the hope of Christmas; John.

The end

TR

1943 Emergency Cream, Soya Marzipan and Christmas Cakes

Volnay

Dad kept a grocery shop in Aldershot. During wartime, he dreaded Christmas. Customers clamoured for extra items, especially dried fruit for cakes and puddings.
Mum, Dad and I stayed up late to weigh up portions of mixed unwashed sultanas and currants, knowing well that everyone would grumble and groan at the mere handful, nowhere near enough to make a cake or a pudding.
In 1943, Dad unwisely took orders for Christmas cakes. These were promised by his bread suppliers, a large national bakery firm. They delivered one iced fruity Christmas cake, one un-iced fruit cake and six plain cakes. Dad had orders for 20 cakes so his first task was to decide which 12 people would be told just two days before Christmas that there was no cake for them.
The next problem was to turn the remaining seven cakes into something looking vaguely like Christmas cakes. Mum and I got the job of icing and decorating. (I was 11 years old.) To do seven cakes in one day would be hard with all the resources available now; to do it in 1943 was nigh on impossible.

Emergency cream and marzipan
Our first thought was to make the plain cakes tastier by putting a layer of 'cream' in the middle. Real cream was not available in wartime, so we used a recipe for 'emergency cream' which went like this: 'Heat 1/2 pint water, melt a tablespoon of unsalted margarine in it. Sprinkle three heaped tablespoons of National Dried Milk into this and beat, then whisk. Add one teaspoon sugar and 1/4 teaspoon vanilla essence. Leave to get very cold.'

Well! You can imagine how ghastly that tasted. It was also very lumpy. But the far more difficult problem was to devise some substitute for marzipan. There were no ground almonds, nor fresh eggs. We used water, dried egg, soya flour and almond essence. The resultant paste was a brilliant yellow. The combination of soya and almond essence gave off a strong bitter aroma, which might pass for the smell of marzipan provided it was breathed through a gas mask.

The paste was suspiciously sticky. Mum and I took a cake each and literally stuck to our task. We scraped the paste off our fingers and pressed it on the cakes. As fast as we put it on it rolled off, falling around each cake like the flabby folds of a fat stomach. Every time we pushed the paste back we rubbed off some of the cake. Although the cakes got smaller, there was the advantage that that the paste got thicker with the rubbed-off crumbs and eventually stayed in place.

Very unsatisfied customers

At last we had a row of cakes, admittedly grubby-looking and strangely dome-shaped. All they needed was a final glossy coating to give them a professional finish, boards to rest upon and a bit of ribbon! Looking at them, Mum and I were seized by nervous giggles. Miraculously we had some icing sugar, and by mixing it with water to a concrete-like consistency, we were able to put a passable rough coating over the domes. They looked like storm-tossed beehives. We hadn't the nerve to put 'Happy Christmas' on top.
When Dad came to admire our handiwork we knew it was time to quit. We beat a hasty retreat to the pictures/movies. After Christmas, every customer who had one of our unique cakes complained... about the unconventional shape, lack of fruit, messy cream centre, the repellent marzipan and, above all, about the tiny nugget of cake so difficult to find under its monstrous dome.
Dad, stung by their ingratitude, had only one reply: 'Don't you know there's a war on?'

Bernie Walker from Australia

Bernie Walker has sent in two splendid family stories with an Australian and Italian flavour

Sent in months ago and I’ve been saving it for the Christmas episode

Good morning Paul

I was relistening to one of your fathers stories in North Africa that reminded me of an old Italian neighbor I had when I was living west of Sydney – we’ll call him Toni.

We were clearing a hillside of thistles together and when we were having a break Toni started to tell stories from WW2. 

He was in an Italian unit that had been fighting for a long time in the desert without a rest was worn out and by this time they were running very short of supplies and were very poorly fed.

His unit had been in running battles with the English and when they awoke on Christmas day 1942

they could smell Turkey. He went with a few of his unit following the delicious smell of the Turkey and crawled to the top of a sand dune to look down and see the English camp complete with tables set up with white tablecloths and proper cutlery ready for Christmas lunch.

They went back to their camp and told the rest of the Italian soldiers what the English were going to be eating for lunch. There was some arguing but it didn’t last long as they felt so let down by Mussolini and Hitler. 

Toni asked “How do we best tell Mussolini to get (%#&’ed)stuffed? 

All 200 of them marched over the sand dune with their hands up!

They were fed well for the first time in months and really enjoyed it. They enjoyed Christmas 1942 with the British.

The story didn’t stop there as Toni was sent to Ceylon and spent the rest of the war in a British POW camp. There were a lot of POW’s and guards suffering from Malaria and there was a doctor doing research and was wondering why some of the POW’s never suffered from Malaria. The doctor had a glass box full of mosquitos. When Toni stuck his arm in the rubber opening the mosquitos parted like the Red Sea. 

The other POW’s that had the same diet as Toni from childhood had the same reaction with the mosquitos. The claim was that having chilli and onions kept the mosquitos away (Sicilian Diet, Toni claimed, was the best).

He went back to Italy then and due to how bad things were after the war in 1948 he had a chance to come to Australia where along with many other Italians went to work on the Snowy Mountain Hydro Scheme.

My heart goes out to the people of Ukraine. Keep up the hard fight!

Keep up the good work on the podcast! Thanks again Paul.

Bernie many thanks for that contribution Just great.

So, how are things getting on with your own campaign to raise money to help Ukraine Paul? Glad you asked that chum.

Can you believe FT listeners have made over 180 contributions directly to the Salvation army and red cross via the links in the show notes or at the top of my web site. I’m blown over by that generosity, so thank you very much. If you value what I do and have never donated to the show, please consider following the links in the show notes and popping just a fiver in the pot. The feedback we get in the UK is that there is still a lot of hardship in Ukraine so they still need our support.

Feedback 6 Martin MATTHEWSON

Martin is a self-avowed binge listener

“My grandmother, was strafed by the luftwaffe, in croydon. We didn’t think to ask for the detailed account before this generation left us.

Ps. 😃 I have set a regular payment to the salvation army as i see it is your charity of choice. (and I can apply the gift aid) Great work. Many thanks

Thank you Martin Good man.

Your story reminds me of one of mine.

I’ve got a dear departed friend, Rodney, who used to tell us all that when he was a baby in a pram, he was strafed by the Germans during the war (he wasn’t). He said that as the German planes came over, his mother threw herself headlong under his pram to take cover (she didn’t), but it was a funny story. 

MARTIN MATTHEWSON · United States of America

Hell, Cheall – already used?

I can’t resist the temptation to share another passage from Dad’s book FTFDTH.

This story is from the end of the war when the allies had occupied Germany at the end of the European war in May 1945. He’d started off in Hamburg and then got relocated after a while.

“Travelling by road, through the war-torn countryside of Germany gave us first-hand knowledge of the way the Germans had been brought to justice and made to suffer. We ended up at Oberhausen, in the Ruhr district of Germany, quite a way from Hamburg. Whereas Hamburg had been a prosperous area, Oberhausen, because of its position in a great industrial basin, was more working class, but nevertheless it had been prosperous, though not anymore, because of the destruction.

We were billeted in what seemed to have been makeshift offices belonging to the IG Farben chemical company. The firm’s name was on a tall tower about fifty yards away, which had miraculously escaped being destroyed during the bombing. I gathered the impression that all the remaining works buildings were a temporary affair, replacing those which had been destroyed. Nothing looked permanent, except a main office block which, apart from the windows, was untouched. Before our billets were occupied, I accompanied our officer on an inspection of the place.

Can you imagine our surprise when, upon opening a locked cupboard, we found a full case of twelve bottles of Scotch whisky, in Dimple bottles? The officer’s eyes lit up and he said, ‘Hell, Cheall, what a find.’ He then handed me a bottle and took the remainder to share with the other company officers. My bottle went home with me when I later went on leave.

And you know? I remember for years when I was a lad, every Christmas Dad used to get that bottle out and have a single tot in a toast to his fallen comrades of the Green Howards. Just out of interest, I looked up the bottle on the internet. It’s easy to identify because of the large-dimpled shape of the bottle and a sort of wire cage surrounding it. And do you know what? They’re about £150! No wonder Dad’s officer said ‘Hell, Cheall, what a find.’ And no wonder Dad savoured it with just the one tot every Christmas! Wow.

Oh yes, and no wonder the officer took 11 out of the 12 bottles!!!!

Christmas 1944 Potato peelings – Great! BBC

Talking about whisky, or in the case of this next story, Grappa,

This one is about a Childhood in Nazi-Occupied Italy

Peter [Girringelly] Ghiringhelli

Northern Italy

Christmas 1944 was a memorable one for me. It was the last one I had with my family for many many years. My father, mother, and my sister Gloria were there. 1944 was by far the grimmest year in northern Italy under Nazi occupation with a civil war raging.

Word got round that the butcher's shop in Porto Valtravaglia had reopened for Christmas, the butcher had managed somehow to secure three donkeys. My father grabbed two bottles of grappa which he had illicitly distilled from sour wine (he and a fellow villager distilled it from a still he had made out of thin copper tubing, smuggled out in pieces at great risk from the factory where he worked) and he and I shot down to Porto, only to find a huge queue.

When we finally got to the counter the butcher told us he was very sorry but only some offal was left. My dad waited until he had sold out and then asked to have a word with him in private. He produced his two bottles of grappa and they were exchanged for part of a prime cut that the butcher was saving for himself. We returned to Musadino triumphantly with about a kilo of donkey meat. When I said to my dad that he had taken a risk not taking the offal, which I would have done, he said "Peter, Peter, you didn't think he was going to leave himself without any meat, did you?"

My father was an excellent cook and Christmas dinner was indeed memorable. Neither Gloria nor I could believe in the magnificent spread before our eyes: there was roast meat, potatoes, and cabbage. Wine to drink, with dried pears as desert, and chestnuts to round it off.

In her exuberance at this unexpected windfall, my mother had thinly peeled the potatoes and discarded the peel. They skins were frantically retrieved Boxing day, roasted, and added to our usual fare.

Peter wrote a fuller memoir about his war and I’m going to feature it in a future episode.

Christmas 1944 - German Occupied Guernsey, Channel Islands WW2

Here’s a heart warming insight into Christmas on Guernsey, one of the islands between France and Britain, which were taken over and occupied by the Germans during the war.

After 5 years of ‘occupation’ and, particularly since the D-Day Allied Invasion of France, our supplies of everything were cut off for the civilian population and for the German Forces. Our remaining ‘lifeline’ of a port on the nearby French coast, from whence a few supplies could be obtained, was now in Allied control and, on our little 9 miles x 4 miles island we, thousands of civilians and thousands of German troops, struggled to survive long enough to be liberated. Food in very short supply, mainly home-grown vegetables. Electricity and gas had to be severely rationed by turning off supplies from more-or-less sunset to sunrise — so that we were without heat or light all winter, and most of the little cooking there was, on an open fire, for which we children gathered as much tree-wood as we could find.

However the will for survival is strong, and my parents knew that the end of the War would be next year. While hoping and praying that we would all live to see that time, they were determined that Christmas would be celebrated in the traditional manner (with the exception of the food, of course!).

The little 3ft high Christmas tree, made of feathers (I still use it) had been bought for my first Christmas in 1932. It was set up on a table in the bay window at the front of the house (where I still live), and my job was to get the little boxes of baubles from the attic and decorate the tree. As the baubles were made of glass in those days, inevitably 1 or 2 did not last every Christmas but there were enough to look festive and the silver tinsel, now very crumpled and would not ‘hang’, nor was there much ‘shine’ to it, but the silver star at the top, that Mother had made years before of thick cardboard and silver paper, shone beautifully, and that last Christmas of the war was a sunny day so that our little tree and its ornaments looked its war-time best.

During the morning we noticed some soldiers on the footpath, looking over the top of the hedge at our house and one was pointing to the Christmas tree — soon there was quite a group of soldiers. For a short time we ‘enemies’ were united as Christians and my father said: “They must wish they were at home with their families and their trees”. Our room was decorated with the various paper chains that had lasted 5 years, the main worry was the very thick multi-coloured one that went across the ceiling from one side to the other — 14ft. It was ‘giving’ in several places and each year my father removed it very carefully, putting as little strain on it as possible. There was little thread left to mend clothes, let alone use for repairing paper-chains! As Dad removed the decorations in January 1945, the big chain parted in the middle. It had done its duty, keeping spirits high during the dark war-time Christmas-times, and now it could fade away, but is always remembered.

For that last Christmas of the Occupation we even had light for a few hours. A nurse friend of our family had an old-fashioned pre-World War 1 carbide lamp for her cycle (she was allowed out after curfew to nurse an old gentleman). We had the carbide lamp on the mantelpiece and provided a soft light over our little group of my grandmother, parents, 3 old friends and myself. It was just that the smell of carbide is quite atrocious and Dad said it was like having a skunk with us. Nevertheless none of the party complained and we talked about that day for many Christmases to come. As Mother said at the time: “The main thing is, we are all together”.

KAYE LE CHEMINANT

A Christmas Memory aboard ship

TROOPS ON TROOPSHIP -LESLIE HESFORD

STRAITS OF GIBRALTAR

Royal Navy

The sound of "Holy Night" or "The First Noel" bring back memories of Christmas to all of us, but my father Leslie Hesford, remembered a rather different piece of music taking him back to an unusual and distant 24th December. He recalled :

A fine clear sunrise on Christmas eve over a calm Atlantic ocean was a cheering sight after the very stormy weather that the 23000 ton troopship 'Stratheden' and the other ships in our fast convoy had faced on previous days. The convoy was steaming eastwards, and in the afternoon, Cape Spartel in Morocco appeared above the horizon. At a signal from the commodore ship the convoy turned 180 degrees and sailed away from the land. Just before sunset, we changed course again and headed eastwards, to pass through the Straits of Gibraltar during the hours of darkness.

To entertain the troops for Christmas Eve, the pipes and drums of the Scottish rifles (Cameronians) who were amongst the units on board, performed the ceremony of "Beating The Retreat" on the open deck and lit by a spectacular sunset over the deep blue of the Atlantic, I heard a tune on the pipes which will always recall the scene to my thoughts.

After darkness had fallen, the convoy in line ahead and in total blackout, sailed slowly through the straits with the troops lining the ships rails - gazing with envy and amazement at the bright twinkling lights of the villages and roads in Spain, far away on our Portside, to disappear from sight as we steamed into the darkness of the Mediterranean and Christmas day.

My unusual Christmas carol? "The 79th Highlanders' farewell to Gibraltar" a reminder of an out of the ordinary Christmas Eve!

At this stage I want to say thank you for your support throughout the year. Thank you for making time to listen. Thank you for all the great feedback and family stories just made for sharing. Have a delightful December, a cracking Christmas, a happy Hogmanay and a brilliant 2023.

PS

Here’s a Christmas stocking-full of PS’s to end the show, beginning with the story of how my Dad got wounded three weeks after surviving the Gold Beach landings on D-Day.

PS Leslie Buehler WW2

So this is drawn from Dad’s WW2 book FTFDTH.

This is about Normandy and it’s the end of June 44, less than a month after D-Day WWII.

“It was now 30 June and we had halted during a lull in the aggression from both

sides in the conflict. We spread out, overlooking a field, about four yards apart, along

one of the ditches which seemed to be never ending. But even when resting we had

to be constantly on the alert. From this position, my section was sent on a patrol

during daylight at about 1030 hrs and was fired upon by the enemy, so we retraced

our steps and made a report to our officer. But I think we must have been

observed returning to our units because of the shelling which followed.

Half-an-hour later, a pal and I were sitting on the bank of a ditch with our

backs to the hedge, having our tiffin, when it happened. We all knew that as long as

we could hear shells passing overhead they were not meant for us. If they were, we

would not hear them and would not feel much when it happened because it was so

sudden. Well, one came over which I didn’t hear. The first thing I knew was that I

had been thrown into the air and had landed five yards away. I had not felt a thing,

but knew that I had been wounded, feeling blood running down my leg, but no pain

at all. I had been hit on the inside of my left thigh, very near to you know what!

It was incredible how quickly it happened. The blast and shrapnel wounded my

pal also. I think how easily I could have been killed. Still, I would not have known

anything about it. Somebody called for the stretcher-bearer, which they should not

have done in case the sound carried to the enemy. The first aid soldier came up, tore

my trousers off and put a first aid dressing on my wound (everyone carried a large

field dressing in a special pocket as part of our battle dress).

The wheels of organisation quickly got moving and in no time at all a four-wheel-

drive Jeep came up to the scene and we were both put on a stretcher and

fastened to the framework erected on the Jeep for the purpose - and away we went.

It was a very strange feeling to me at the time. The comradeship in those days

was so great among the boys, it is difficult to describe. We were all pals who had

together experienced the most traumatic events. We lived together, fought together

and sometimes died together, or very often depended upon each other for life itself.

We became very close, sharing very emotional times and our officers were included

in all our sentiments.

I don’t remember whether I was sad or glad that I had been wounded, but I knew

that I experienced a great feeling of regret when the Jeep drove across the field and

I shouted, ‘So long, lads,’ and I never saw them again. They were probably thinking,

‘Lucky bugger

he is out of it’, which, when it comes to the crunch, was true because I could so

easily have been killed that day. Now my future lay wherever my fate took me.

I was taken to a field hospital, which was a hive of activity. Well, it would be,

wouldn’t it? The Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC) was dedicated to taking care

of the wounded. A young lad came and cut my trousers off, then the Medical Officer

examined my wound, which was now becoming painful. A large field dressing was

put on and I was given a morphine injection and went to sleep.

...

AWAY FROM the sounds of the war, I had slept well between white sheets,

but as soon as my eyes opened I felt the pain of my wound.

I saw the Medical Officer appear. He was going from bed to bed, asking

how we were feeling and giving instructions to the orderlies, one of whom dressed

my wound and gave me a morphine injection. I was not feeling too good and another

orderly brought me a cup of hot, sweet tea and made me as comfortable as possible.

Those orderlies may not have been in the firing line, but they had the skills to do

a different kind of job under very difficult circumstances in the field. Sometime

during the morning, an ambulance came, took six of us, and headed for the coast.

When I had been wounded, our battalion was in a position near Villers-Bocage,

a few miles from the coast, and the trip back to the beaches was slow because the

roads were congested with military traffic, mainly the RASC carrying supplies,

which had priority, so it took us some considerable time to reach Arromanches, site

of the British Mulberry harbour. As I was being transferred to the ship, I felt the

ambulance going over the hollow-sounding, floating roadway. As I went over, I was

determined to try and have a look at the Mulberry. This prefabricated port was an

amazing feat of engineering. Many years later, forty in fact, and the first time I had

returned to Normandy, all that remained of that magnificent harbour were the huge

blocks of concrete, which will remain for many years to come as a monument to

man’s genius. My imagination ran wild.

After I had been settled in a bunk, the effects of the morphine and the motion of

the hospital ship soon sent me to sleep. I was most surprised when I was awakened

to be told that we had arrived at Southampton, from where I had originally sailed to

Normandy. It seemed ages ago. Two orderlies carried my stretcher off the ship and

put me into one of a fleet of ambulances, which was soon on its way to a Canadian

hospital, just outside of Southampton. It was a brand new complex, built for the

specific purpose of receiving casualties and was made up of numbers of well-built

wooden structures each about twice the size of a Nissen hut, all on ground level. It

was situated in lovely countryside and each building was joined by a corridor to the

next. It was the 22nd Canadian general hospital and its entire staff were Canadian,

devoted to their calling, who treated us all with the utmost care and consideration

for our comfort, showing gratitude for what we were, wounded soldiers who had,

at first hand, experienced the horrors of war and who now needed their skilled

attention.

First of all, I was appointed and introduced to a Canadian orderly. He was a young

man named Leslie Buehler. I was put on a blanket-covered couch, then stripped and

bathed. All my clothes were thrown into a bin and a new field dressing was put on

my wound, which was giving me some pain. They put a nightshirt on me, then took

me to a ward and put me into a lovely clean bed with white sheets and pillowcases.

To me, it was luxury! It was almost worth being wounded for and a far cry from the

fighting of two days ago.

After a short while, a Medical Officer came and examined my wound, which was

bleeding again and beginning to cause me some distress. Within one hour, I was

having an X-ray to determine the extent of penetration of the shrapnel. I was no

sooner back in my bed, than I was out again onto a trolley and given the usual premed

jab to make me drowsy before being taken to the operating theatre, where a

surgeon told me about my wound. At this point, I could not feel my leg at all. Then

two bottles were set up, one containing blood, the other with penicillin dripping

into my arm. The mask was put over my face and that was all I knew until I woke

1. As is usual, after surgery, I didn’t quite know where I was and after a little while

my orderly came to me and said: ‘Well, William Cheall (he’d obviously taken this

from my pay book), you are all done and dusted’, and then he handed me something

wrapped in a bit of gauze for a souvenir. It was the piece of shrapnel recovered

from my wound – from an 88mm shell about one-and-a-half inches long and over

a quarter-of-an-inch thick. Leslie Buehler asked me if I realised how lucky I had

been because the shrapnel – had it hit me one inch higher – would have prevented

me from being a parent. When the surgeon came to see me, he said that the piece of

steel had penetrated so far into my upper thigh that they had had to put a four-inch

cut in my backside to remove it. I still have the shrapnel for a souvenir and also the

two scars of my wound.

This was my first contact with the Canadians and I found them to be very efficient

and caring. The hospital unit was run entirely by men and my orderly waited on me

hand and foot. I have been empathetic towards Canada ever since.

PS Leslie Buehler Christmas card

A parting anecdote. In December 1947, I received a Christmas card from Leslie

Buehler, the boy who was my orderly in the 22nd Canadian General Hospital. It had been sent to Dundee Royal Infirmary and forwarded to my home address. What a lovely thought from a complete stranger. It was posted in Three Hills, Canada and is still amongst my souvenirs. There’s a pic in the show notes.

PS 2 Christmas Sharing with POW’s England WWII

Betty Edmonds, Ken and Emily Adams

Mansfield, Nottingham

I was about 6 years of age. Christmas was a very special time and my Mother saved rations and coupons for Christmas Cake and a Pudding which I helped to mix and put in 3 silver three penny bits. Somehow we always had one each!

Prisoners — usually Italian I believe and a few German were under guard in quarters in Sherwood Forest. Dad was serving in the NFS. I don’t know how arrangements were made but trusted citizens were contacted via NFS. On Christmas Day two soldiers would arrive in the morning bringing three “prisoners”. They were always family people, kind, thoughtful and had good manners.

They played with me, told me stories of their homes and we laughed a lot.

We sat round a cheery coal fire in the front room (we usually only had a fire in the dining room).

We shared a wonderful Christmas dinner. Dad always made a table decoration out of cotton wool and hid a few sweets in parcels in it. We each pulled a string and had a present. The guests always brought presents. I remember a hand painted tile for Mum and Dad, a wobbling wooden duck for me; a home made puppet (from a sock). Dad had a hand made cigarette box. Our guests were given socks, gloves and on one occasion a guest said he missed his wife s linen so Mum made him two pillow cases from an old sheet and embroidered them.

After dinner we played games in the front room — card games, magic puzzles such as saucers and photographer (I’ve tried these with children in school and they are fascinated). The Kings speech was a must on the radio.

We also sang carols round the piano. One guest was brilliant and he and dad played duets.

I recall hugging one guest as he stood by our Christmas tree in the hall, crying as he said his families names. Mum asked if they had photos and all had so we put the pictures on the tree and sang a carol — it was wonderful.

Tea time was supper. Sandwiches, home made buns, Christmas cake, jelly.

At 6.00pm (Dad told me), the escorts arrived. They were given a glass of sherry — guests too and wished happy Christmas and a blessed new year.

I’ve often wondered what happened to our guests. Each year they made Christmas special. They too had loved ones — even in wartime. We shared what little we had and celebrated the true meaning of Christmas. Where are we now 64 years later?

Christmas Day 1944 – US soldiers WW2

In 1944 American Soldiers injured in the Normandy Offensive were hospitalised in the Sudbury Area. Miss Smith, a Teacher at Bemrose School in Derby, appealed for any families who would be able to entertain Soldiers on Christmas Day. My Mother and Father agreed to offer Hospitality. So it was that two American Soldiers arrived by Army Truck on Christmas morning to join in our festive meal and spend time with a typical English Family.

They stayed with us for the whole day, telling us all about themselves and their family back home. In the evening we played the usual parlour games of that era like " Subject and Object" finishing up with a singsong. This included such songs as "Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover " and " Coming on a Wing and a Prayer " accompanied by Mother on the Piano.

The two soldiers were really appreciative of the time they had spent with us and Mother kept up a correspondence with them and their families for many years after the War. They even sent small food parcels to us during those difficult days of rationing.

In my autograph album I treasure the two entries which they made:
"To a very, very swell English family who made a Christmas a long way from home almost as perfect as if I had been at home. Remember a G.I who you made very happy" Garvin Haist , Los Angeles , California.

"May your joys be as deep as the ocean and your troubles as light as its foam. Happy New Year wishes and hope you will have many more joyous Christmas Days. With many Thanks!" Robert W Kolts , Salt Lake City , Utah.

After this account appeared in the Derby Telegraph, a reader from the Ripley area with friends in Utah made contact with a Mrs R.W Kolts. She turned out to be the wife of Robert Kolts, who sadly died in February 2004. I wrote to her and sent a copy of the page from my autograph album, along with photos of the family in 1946 and one of my wife, Nora and myself. She was delighted and in return sent me photos of herself and Robert. She also included an account of his Christmas Day with us, which he had written for his family.

The same reader from Ripley then did search for Garvin Haist and found only one in America. He lived in Las Vegas and at the time was aged 83. So I wrote an introductory letter to him and received an email back confirming that he was the G.I who visited our family in 1944. We are now corresponding and exchanging photographs.

How wonderful to make contact after 61 Years.

I’ve gotta go now – I’ve got presents to wrap. Christmas Cards to write.

Merry Christmas Everybody! And a happy Hogmanay.

I’m PC saying

Cheers

And above all Slanjervar!

Links

https://guildfordarms.com/

https://www.caferoyaledinburgh.com/

In search of the pub at Hogmanay

https://www.facebook.com/groups/243031579057598/permalink/6000651499962215/

Anderson shelters

https://andersonshelters.org.uk/design-construction/building/

Spotify playlist – German war songs

https://open.spotify.com/episode/35eUciFLotazYwLQYPohde?si=BuTXcAcpROWUWcMJjVOmuw

POW letters home https://www.joh.cam.ac.uk/sites/default/files/documents/Christmas%20letters%20transcribed.pdf

Douglas Bader report

https://www.facebook.com/861551180637519/posts/pfbid02Dh4zf6aHzVYkV4HxgymXPGTRqGLcJMPXobxzrfS1yPCmiYbFXTx7NoUBfvA3D7Ltl/?d=n

A Short History Of The Aden Emergency

https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/a-short-history-of-the-aden-emergency

Sound Effects from Pixabay

https://pixabay.com/sound-effects