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Letter from Canada
Dear all,
Encounter with America by Nick Osgood The county of Devon is known as one in a collection of the most beautiful quiet backwaters that England has to offer in its southwest quarter. A rather out of the way from the public eye county as compared to the many others parts of England, especially at this time in the twentieth century. It was April 1944 and England was at war. A strong defensive was being shown in England after periods of twenty-four hour aerial bombardment of major cities by the Hun. Our part of Devon however was not as badly affected as the rest of the country, currently on its knees. Country folk, although not ignorant of the surrounding action just distances away, were going about their usual daily routines suffering with only minor stresses. Husbands and brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who had been called up, left others to carry on the farms and businesses of Devon as best they could. Major food rationing was in full effect, no dry goods or raw materials and everyday products in short supply. People relied on each other for help and in this part of the country that was a standard approach to life. It was sometimes shown as a small amount of fruit and vegetables, or maybe fish. Teignmouth didn't stop its harvest of seafood even though there were very few feisty young men standing around to set sail out to the horizon in great smoking trawlers at a moments notice. Instead, older men in small rowing boats with salmon nets ventured out very cautiously, sticking close to the coast for its protection. They knew that they could scurry back to the best of their bent-backed, grey-haired abilities, at a moment’s notice, to the debatable safety of the harbour if there were signs of an imminent air raid or as darkness fell, which ever in their minds came first. I was fourteen and eagerly wanting to grow up faster than anyone else in my school. My Dad and oldest brother Steve, called up three years earlier, were currently serving with the Royal Navy somewhere in the Pacific. Each day after school and at weekends, I rode Steve's rusty old bicycle to The Central Garage down in the town. Mr. Jackson, the owner, paid me two shillings a week to tidy up the grubby grease pit that he and his wife and his currently enlisted son Jeff called a business. Between sweeping up and making tea, I was sometimes allowed to help with the recycling through a dirt filter of the used motor oil ready for re-sale. No new motor parts could be obtained at this time and people who owned a car couldn't afford to use them anyway since petrol rationing was in full force and the pure pleasure of walking from place to place provided the opportunity for them to meet other townsfolk for conversation. Really unbeknownst to all this last approach helped psychologically to build a strong confidence amongst the locals at a time when support from all directions was extremely necessary. One Monday morning for no apparent reason, when first considered, Jimmy Jackson in the early hours of the morning boarded up the front of his garage having poisoned his wife Ellen the previous night and then hung himself in the workshop. Most of the townsfolk truly believed that it was due to a combination of his alcoholism brought on from the news last year that his son Jeff, missing in action, had gone on long enough for him to be able to handle now. Excerpts in the Teignmouth Post newspaper over the following weeks declared these to be the reasons for his passing but I knew deep down that definitely the only reason for his death, judging by his whiskey breath and incessant daily complaints, was his oversized inability to wear the mechanics coveralls hanging on the toilet door that proudly bore a name tag with the letters JEFFREY stitched on it. It was still early spring, the summer hadn't yet begun and the usual kind of restless excitement inside would not allow me to sit still. My brother bicycle, although rusty and clangy and in need of major attention, at this time of my life was still my best friend. It took me to places further and faster than any other method currently at my disposal. The inside energy that I was experiencing aided the source for the enthusiasm of those growing years in Teignmouth. I felt that I had to try and look beyond my current doorstep if adventure was to be achieved. As with many of the small coastal towns, Teignmouth was built where a river estuary meets with the ocean offering a small, yet busy harbour. Behind the town was a set of beautiful moorland hills that lead to as yet unexplored destinations for me. I made myself a commitment, as my job was now null and void and before this last fact had become of some importance to my mum, this coming weekend I would ride Steves` bicycle up to a part of these moors. Maybe there I could " breath" a little and possibly relieve the frustrations of cooped up energy that I was currently experiencing. Saturday arrived, breakfast was thrown down in haste and it was lightly raining. Being that Friday had been washing day for my mum and the clothes were still out on the line from the day before, they hung wet in the rain. Still no matter, to me their availability made it a great convenience to pull someone's underwear from the line and wipe the bicycles` seat and handlebars down. Then I could throw the used item into the nearby bushes and claim no knowledge whatsoever when cornered at a later date, and simply blame the condition on the high winds that the overnight rains had partnered with, despite the relevant mud and oil smears that the article sustained. Off I cycled, the rain turned to an irritable fine mist the further I rode from the town, as the morning insisted on staying dull. The moorland wasn't far by bicycle and soon I was amongst the low growing purple heather and gorse hedging that grew abundantly over the area. I followed an unsignposted side road made up of crushed flint and was able to appreciate the sweet smell of wet peat that was the base for these different lands. The clouds hung low here, hanging themselves on the hills peaks like the meringue on mums lemon pies. Misty might have been the correct word to some, but hampering was the correct word to me as my exhausted lungs that often struggled from a history of asthma took in the days` dampness and started to tighten. Yet obsessed with the enthusiasm of the day I peddled onwards even in pain, for I knew the prospect that lay ahead from memories of past trips in the Morris with my father. When this hill flattened out at the top it used to be a small private airstrip known as Haldon Aerodrome. In the years before the war, it was used regularly for training pilots from the local school in their Lysander trainers. During the twenties and thirties the occasional luxury twelve seater planes would land, full of England's famous society personnel who came to golf for the day on the Haldon Moor Golf course. But due to the current war condition not to my surprise was there anything like this to be found here today. Even the grey planked wreck that they regularly called a control shack today lay in an angular windswept ruin. Had it all been bombed out during the past weeks I considered?......definitely yes, I concluded. that was it! We must have been hit by some horrific Luftwaffe action, like the ones that I had been hearing about from the adults, the ones that had annihilated London to a complete and utter wasteland of desolation. I dropped the bike for a moment or two to see if I might trace a piece of shrapnel or stray bullet from the awful bombing or dog-fight between an ME109 and Spitfire that my imagination allowed me to retrace on that night at the airfield…but nothing…just heather and flint….lots of it. I peddled on a bit further down to the end of the road that ran parallel to the airstrip and then I stopped to rest at the crossroads to catch my breath so that I might be able to see a glimpse of the overwhelming view of the coast that ran left and right of me. But today this was not to be, the rains` fog had enclosed any such beauty until for another time. Looking up at the signpost that the bicycle was leaning against at the crossroads, I saw that I had ridden an amazing three miles from the town centre of Teignmouth and now newer places stood at my disposal which lay a greater distance a field such as Dawlish, Exeter, Chudleigh or Heathfield. The only ones feasible by bicycle in my mind was to be Chudleigh, down in the valley on the other side of the hill and then maybe on to Heathfield just a few miles further on. I recall in the past months the Teignmouth Post newspaper mentioning an American army camp, or Military Base, at Heathfield. So therefore with the signpost showing it as only being a few miles away I hastily straddled the rusty monster once again. Cycling hard from the hills` brow and then picking up speed as it merged from flint, back on to the surfaced road, controlling the side skidding as the flint flew away on the hard tarmac... for now I was flying !!! Now had I remembered to seriously consider before undertaking any such a downhill run the simple fact that my brothers bike was in severe need of servicing, in the area of ………..brake blocks. It became horrifyingly apparent to me as the first hedged corner when in an uncontrollable movement I rapidly ran straight on and sort of up the side of the high hedge, landing bodily in the field further on. Luckily for me as only having just left the moor, the hedge contained mainly ferns, so other than the knees of my school trousers, now covered in cow dung from the field the other side of the hedge and a few bracken whip marks, was able to pick myself up unharmed. The bicycle however had ridden itself a further fifteen or so cow-dung patches in to the field and was in need of a fair few grass bunch wipings before being able to be put back into reuse if I was to continue on down the hill. Why did I want to carry on down to Chudleigh after my first encounter with bad luck? Well maybe I had this inner driving force to see what an American looked like and just how much gum he actually does chew. So I minus any brakes I continued on, but this time with both feet out and school shoes scuffing the roads` loose gravel, with the bicycle riding in the side rain gully. Finally the road flattened out as I approached the collection of cottages that went to make up the small village of Chudleigh. Soon gravity allowed me to stop outside the first of the whitewashed cottages of the village, so in final peace and quiet I stopped to rest and catch my breath; down in the valley sun had finally broken through the day’s earlier misty ambience, things felt good. Suddenly, out of what seemed nowhere, from behind me came the unrecognizable sound of what turned out to be an American Jeep. The dull olive object roared by as though there was no tomorrow. The windshield flattened to the hood and two large framed individuals decked out in dark brown leather flying jackets and green army helmets, both adorning broad cocky smiles of American overconfidence heading to who knows where. To me this sight, as to the many other nosey villagers now timidly peeping out from behind their curtains, were aliens. For this scene had never been experienced before by anybody presently viewing. The most different daily sight but not beyond expectation may have been the view of a local farmer herding his cattle or sheep up the main street between fields or maybe the odd runaway horse, or the excitement of the Annual Morris Dancers gathering at the granite War Memorial in the village centre…………… but never aliens. The likes of this scenario I had never seen before except in the famous and cherished Marvel picture comics from the USA. I remounted my bicycle and continued to ride on through the village, but this time with great haste and in the direction that the Jeep had gone hoping that I might be able to see it fade off into the distance giving me a clue as to the directions that the Military Base might be located. Then to my greatest surprise I approached upon a scene of total unexpectation. I found the jeep parked around the corner in a totally ignorant or should I say arrogant manner and disrespect for others of any of the other parking spots outside the public house. Realizing that a wonderful opportunity had arisen, dare I take this rare once in a lifetime opportunity to investigate this vehicle of mystery and dreams in the eyes of a fourteen year old? The answer must have been yes for I dropped my rusty friend to the floor in total disrespect, behind the Jeep and began to critically, yet apprehensively run my eyes over the individual items that went into its construction. I knew that even Mr. Jackson, if he had still been alive, would never have seen the likes of such a thing in all of his sixty-eight years of shallow Teignmouthian life. The finely black stenciling of part numbers was on every single item that went to make up this vehicle of wonder. Strangely, I thought to myself how wrong all the adults are with their statements about how rich those Americans were, for here we have the dashboard on this motor vehicle of theirs comprising of just a stupid speedometer and a couple of knobs. Even my dads Morris had more to offer than just that! Suddenly from behind me came a slow yet loud deep voiced Texas drawl … “Hey kid what ya up to?" …think ya can drive it?" At least I think that's what he said. I still to this day don't remember. I spun around in fear, quaking in my shoes. Two six foot American Marines in full army gear stood behind me and not six foot away. They both stood “at ease” and with their fists firmly clenched and resting on their hips. They had their olive green trousers tucked into the tops of the largest shiny black boots I had ever seen, and they both carried a gun holster, just like the cowboys had in the comics and movies. They both wore green helmets and one of them wore a pair of black sunglasses, which I firmly believed no-one could have seen out of. “I didn’t touch it sir” I whispered in a weak quavering voice similar to that of being in front of the headmaster at school. “What’s that kid?” drawled the first “Wanna go fer a ride in the back son?" said the second. It felt like that at that moment I was either in some sort trouble from Mr. Winstanley, the policeman back in Teignmouth, or that I soon would be. I said nothing whilst my stomach, bowel area and sudden dry mouth sorted themselves out. "Lost ya tongue kid...no speaky da English?" After which they both burst into the laughter in what appeared to me to be some sort of a joint private joke. Why I do not know. Anyway. What an opportunity I thought. "Y.. Yes sir, I’d like that a lot" I said in reply. “O.K. jump in then kiddo" one bellowed. Forgetting about Steves` bicycle I climbed through the front seats and onto the basic wooden backbench that went to make up a rear seat. The other one saw the bicycle demise and picked up the rusty hulk with one hand, a thing I could never do, and placed it up against the closest whitewashed wall belonging to the pub and off we went. Reversing rapidly and with absolutely no respect for the gearbox and clutch crashed it into a forward gear. Without regard for anything else that might have been moving on the road that day, screeched the tires and pulled away, jerking our necks forward and then backward. The Saturday had now finally turned to full sun and with his ignorance for the villages` speed limit, drove at a reckless pace allowing the clutch to fly out and in when he felt like it and continuing to jerk us all back and forth until I forcibly had to stop myself from peeing in sheer terror,….. or was it excitement. Leaning back over his shoulder, a deep voice shouted over the facial wind, "So kid, what’s yer name and wadda ya do for fun `round here". In sudden adrenaline coated boldness I blurted out "Well sir, my name is John Spooner and I used to work at Jackson’s" Thinking in my country ignorance that everyone in the world knew of what “Jackson’s” was, and moreover where it was. This answer wasn't the correct one the GI was looking for, as he frowned at me in misunderstanding. “Leave him alone Clark, he's just a young kid “said the driver. Again they both laughed for no apparent reason. Now, in my mind the name of Clark, I thought to myself, was as in clerk, in the Lloyd's bank downtown? Who in their right mind would be called Clerk, only a person from another planet…as I thought before…an alien, which at this point in time to me America seemed to be. But they complied with my return and the driver asked, "What's` Johnson’s kiddo, some private boarding school or the band-aid factory?" Nervously laughing I briefly explained how Mr.Jackson hung himself on the Monday morning right after the weekend I had been working there. “Oh, apprenticing` fer a mechanic eh?" What did he say I thought to myself in total confusion? Fur Trade? I’d heard of that term used at school in Geography class and how it was relative to The Hudson Bay somewhere over in Canada. Nodding back in smiling agreement was the kind of nervous neutral movement to his questioning that I might be able to get away with. But right now the combination of riding in the back and wind blowing in my face together with the loud humming of the tires and engine noises were causing me to shake from the creation of adrenaline and adventure. This caused my confidence to boldly and unnaturally increase despite the focal questioning as I started to imagine myself to be the third GI in the current group out on an important overseas assignment. Before I could decide how we got to where we were, we were, where we were……….. Outside the military army camp base Heathfield. In bold letters it showed USM CAMP HEATHFIELD - American Army and Marine Corps. Div 3227. Personnel only beyond this point. "Sorry kid, end of the trail, out you get" said the driver. But what about getting back to the pub and what about Steve’s` rusty bike. Now I'm not sure if it was just luck or someone up above looking down, but at this point in time a convoy of army trucks turned the corner from the opposite direction and arrived at the gates entrance. They were carrying a shipment of wooden crates and every third or forth had in black stenciling the name Harley Davidson under which showed "American and Proud" inside a flying eagle flag emblem. They were lead by a Jeep similar to the one that I was getting out of but instead this passenger alongside the driver wore on his helmet three stars on the front and more stars on his uniforms` shoulders. "Get out of the Jeep kid quick and now" He shouted at me, but now in a louder tone than I had heard since our first meeting. I could feel the shuffling and tension occurring going on between the two of them as the two GIs briskly adjusted themselves whilst saluting with shoulders back as the convoy passed under the security barrier passed the stiffly frozen to attention guard at the guard house. When the final truck went through in what seemed to be an eternity of time and silence had occurred. One G.I. spoke "So... the ol mans` back in town" said Clerk in low tones. "Yessir" replied the other "Eisenhower kicked him out and sent him back to the green fields and rain I guess". As I stood beside the Jeep one GI reached in to his pocket and handed his partner a white-labeled piece of gum from a long rectangular packet. Then glancing at me threw the rest with a no doubt practiced Los Angeles Dodgers accuracy, shouting at me as they pulled away under the barrier and into the compound. "Have a good life kiddo". Then with heads` jerking once again from the clutch work, swung around the far corner behind the building, leaving me in seconds with nothing but the resolute guard with his rifle, a Devon country roads` quiet desolation, reality only breaking in by the realization of in my hand the possession of a small white packet bearing the name……….. Wrigley's. Now, ask an out of town fourteen year old to retrace the direction and create footsteps towards where he stood about half an hour earlier was a task greater than an end of term school math exam. But what kind of helped with a panicky situation was the direction that the passing red Chudleigh Post Office van went in as its vans` engine "knocked" its way by on its return journey back to what I hoped was the post office in the village centre. I say "knocked" because being a service vehicle during wartime had been privileged to run on some type of substitute for petrol. This involved a large gas bag installed on the roof, held down by chicken mesh and the gas being fed to the engine. This method of supply allowed the van to move o.k. but its main downfall was an excessive engine knock and lack of power, so my science teacher, Mr. Reed told us. This approach now causing it to run slower and rougher I was able to run along side for almost half a mile until the road started to run downhill and gravity took over, leaving me behind. However although leaving me in its stinky trail, I was able to now adequately “hear” with confidence where the village of Chudleigh was located. Before long I was soon walking on the main street that into the village and to the pub where my bicycle still sat, untouched by the world. The Post Office van was parked outside the post office noisily and smokily idling outside the shop in a sort of taunting “I beat you" look. I stopped outside small shop window and cupped my two hands over my eyes to look inside. I was drawn to a small officially printed card taped to the inside of the open door of the store, along with other items for sale it read, “URGENT Temp.pt.time general labor req. Auto exp. asset. Heathfield Military Base. Phone 3551 and ask for Sgt. C. McKinnon". Although working at Teignmouths` Central Garage for a while I had actually had no "auto" as they put it "exp." Other than what I had picked up visually, but I would like to have ago at “general labor req.”. Besides the card must be wrong, it can't be the Heathfield Military Base because of the name McKinnon. It can't belong to an American, can it? That’s Irish or Scots I thought. Those Americans over seas don’t have last names like that….. Do they? The afternoon was stretching out and I knew that in order to get home before dark I’d better make a run for the hill that led to Haldon Moor; I straddled the bicycle and peddled for all I was worth through the village. My energy soon ran out as the hills` angular challenges made the better of a now tiring boy. I got off and started to push the now rusty, clanging, heavy hateful addition to my life. Exhaustively pushing and then subsequently resting until after what felt like hours I thankfully arrived at the start of the flint covered road which leads to the brow of the moor. Then with renewed enthusiasm I pushed until I shortly came, once again upon the crossroads and its companion signpost. All the mist and rain from earlier in the day had now disappeared out over the viewable distant horizon as the sun had fully brightened the late afternoon. Being later than usual the normal stop and lay back in the heather to stare straight up at the large white clouds that were now starting to yellow against the azure blue sky, was for today, cancelled. Suddenly something caught my eye; unusual shaped items off in the far distance, yet in the bay. Some kind of medium sized naval flotilla was breaking up the straight horizon that normally was to be seen day after day in its usual virgin monotony. Could it be the ships that were bringing my dad and brother home, was the Navy sailing them right towards our tiny fishing harbour? Yes it must be. Excitedly, I jumped back on my bike to do the “forced breaking” freewheel down the hill to home. I had to spread the news. The downhill ride began with no delays, after all it’s all downhill, but sadly how fast cow dung on the knees is forgotten, the bike still didn't have any brake blocks and gravity always overcomes school shoes and my breaking methods were inadequate for the application. However, at around the same time as this realization, a side road appeared up ahead to my left. It ran straight and flat. So I simply guided the shaky contraption onto this road at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. The rough and pot holed surface gradually brought the bike to a stop. Our house was only a half a mile or so the other side of the hedged hay fields on the left. So I was able to simply find the field’s gateway and try my best to ride across this newly mown field. Before long I was tiredly forcing the rusty remains of metalwork that I had relied upon for a life earlier in the day into the wooden shed at the back, but not before giving the pittance of an ocean view from our back garden one final glance……the previous view had disappeared…the ships had hastily sailed on out of sight. What I recall with a distinct clarity to this day was that back then, no matter what the weather or the progress of the current war conditions were that I was always woken on Sunday mornings in Teignmouth by the joyous and happy sounds of church bells calling parishioners to their various establishments of worship. Call these sounds traditional, but back then on that particular Sunday they meant to me more than I had ever wished for. Today I was going down to the end of our road to the red phone box to phone Sgt. C. McKinnon at Heathfield. 3551. and apply for that job with or without my” Auto exp”! It seemed such a long distance to travel in my mother’s minds eye, when the dreams of my plans were explained over breakfast. Very true it was, if you took the normal approach, up the road that ran beside the river…. by car. It was almost eight miles. But I pleadingly explained in a white lie that if I took the moorland road on Steves` bicycle it was a meager mile and a bit, knowing full well in my heart that it was a four miles....but mainly downhill I told myself. Church was calling, my mother was distracted, places to go, people to see. The meeting was over, thank the Lord, literally, I thought, for my mothers preoccupation had smiled today in my favour on this Sunday for me. I grabbed the handful of odd coins from inside my shoe box that the palm of Jimmy Jackson’s` greasy hand had placed into mine the night before his final dilemma, and ran down to the phone box at the corner. I never have reason to use the phone, ever, but today of all days; frustratingly someone was using the thing before me. I waited and waited and waited for what seemed hours, well at least until I needed to pee. Then suddenly, it was my turn. In I went. The phone box smelt of a sort of damp bad odour and a dirty oniony sort of smell surrounded the hand piece, what sort of foul person must it have been that used it before me. I slapped my coins down on the shelf beside the phone and with a nervous confidence began to dial the number, 3..5..5.1...... ......... ........ .. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep went the phone. That meant that it was time to put in two pennies. Both of which swiftly got knocked from the shelf to the floor in hasty nervousness. I was sure I had two more, which I pushed into the coin slots on the phones front. Then it rang..Burr...burr…burr...burr....burr...then all so very fast, a deep, somewhat familiar drawly, voice spoke……… "U.S.M. Camp Heathfield... Sgt. C. McKinnon speaking I knew straight away, it was the Clerk man from the Jeep ride of yesterday. The shock of this unexpected familiarity caused me to stumble even more with a nervous pause not knowing what to say. “Hello" he spoke again. "Uh.hello" I nervously replied. "Do you need help with cars?" "Cars" he bellowed "What cars, autos?" "Y.Y...Yesir" I replied "Waddya mean...Who is this?" Sgt. C. McKinnon again bellowed. I tried to explain but in complete and utter anxiety as though I was standing outside the school staff room about to be disciplined. I blurted out my name, “J...J..John Spooner, the boy that he and his friend gave a ride to yesterday from the centre of the village and that………” “Corporal Wainwright, ya mean" he butted into my conversation with. "Uh...” unknowing what he meant by this, simply agreed again "Yesir, and that I had worked for Mr. Jackson at his garage on Saturdays and after school for the last year cleaning up and making tea. "Tea.....tea?" he roared condescendingly. "We won’t be needin` that, WE here, don't drink that there tea…. java son, java" And then I feel sure I heard him spit to the floor below from the corner of his mouth. "Where j`get this info that we're needin` help son” Sgt. C. McKinnon shouted. “Well" I continued in complete confusion as to what "info" was. "You have a sign in the Post Office window up in the vill...." "The United States Government has an ad kiddo, not me Sgt. C. McKinnon” he again butted in. "My job is purely military, son, purely military. Are you callin` yerself a Line Mechanic” he spoke? “`Cos that's what were lookin` fer boy, Line Mechanics to help out" he said. "No sir" I replied. "No sir is right boy you ain't that, an` that's fer sure, you’d be just a go fetch boy, but that never did hurt, show up at 800 hours on Saturday" he finally said. "Thank you sir" I said in excitement "Yer welcome boy" was the prompt American standard reply. To which a Standard English reply would have been “Well thank you, so are you" But if it had occurred would have undoubtedly lead to a continuance of the last replies from each other in correct politeness until the current world as we know it blew apart in the next atomic age. So luckily for me before this occurred he had slammed the phone down and left me holding a dirty black stinky humming one. I, so ecstatic, in return forgot my British manners and also slammed the receiver down, forgot the remainder of my change for the phone and ran up the road faster and more excited than I had ever done before. Now I was ready to take over the best job for the upcoming summer that anyone kid of my age from my school could wish for, not even in their wildest of dreams. I had to make this venture last as long as possible. But simply how wrong could I have been if only if I had been able to see into the future at that point in time. This I'm sure was to be the shortest part-time job in the history of England being that it unknowingly bordered on the doorstep of a world history event. Aware that an adventure was about to begin for me this coming Saturday the week at school dragged on like never before. It rained heavily every day for the next set of days, but without despondency I was determined to do what I could to Steves` bicycle in order that I could make it a more safe source of operation for the coming Saturday. After school each night, with the rain dripping and splashing through that wooden shed and sharing this pretence with every garden tool imaginable I did what I could in order that the rusty contraption might become a more viable proposition. Oil, my dad always used to use oil on things. What for, I didn't quite know but ...oil. So oil it was, chain, pedals, brake levers and wheel axles, until it dripped heavily on the dirt floor. Finally having pumped up the tyres I was now fulfilled that I had increased its ability to go at least fifty percent faster. I stood up straight in self-satisfaction, only to bang the top of my head on the shelf above the bike that the can of Three-In-One oil had been on, plus promptly knocking most of its contents to the floor. With the bang, not only did a jam jar of rusty fencing nails fall to the ground but also four extremely partly worn brake blocks from an obvious prior transition that Steve may have once done in the past. Worn or not, for me, I thought, it was to be the difference between cow-dung and breezing down the upcoming hills of Saturday at hundreds of miles per hour with a new approach to safety. At least it was possible for me to put these on, using an old pair of rusty pliers from the shelf's` prior eruption. Within minutes I had the dirty dust clad units installed and adjusted. Ha, I thought, no more worn out shoe soles to have to explain away. Saturday arrived for me at the anxious hour of six o'clock. The weather was of absolutely no consequence at all, but I think it had again been raining, looking back on that day in memory. Neither was it of any consequence the contents of my breakfast or the ride up over the moors and down the hill towards Chudleigh. I only woke to the realities of my everyday life when I went to use the newly installed brake blocks. They worked, oh yes they worked, but as anyone knows, even the best of brakes don’t work as well as they should when you ride through water. So I was now doing the one hundred miles per hour of reckless abandon that I had hope to instill through the oily tune up of the week. Luckily for me I proceeded to ride the distance before the first turn in the road, more into the centre and applied full brake pressure, knowing that this would allow them to dry out and bring me to and eventual stop, just in time for the first corners hedge, and it did. Through the village I rode and up the slight incline until I could see the entrance to the Military Base a mile or so ahead. Thinking to myself and mentally expecting that I would standardly be stopped and strip searched by the M.P. upon arrival. Eagerly I arrived at the entrance barrier but to my unexpected surprise found no one at the small M.P.s hut by the barrier. Strange I thought, but deciding that he must have been taking his break, I peddled the bicycle past without stopping. The large and long dirty looking red brick building offered equal sets of partially broken windows at the top of its walls. I remember it to have once been an engineering factory prior to the current war, manufacturing gearboxes for fork lift trucks or was it wheelbarrows, I didn’t recall. Outside the warehouse at the end was an open storage area where twenty or so American Sherman tanks stood what looked like on guard? Their gun turrets pointed in unison towards the morning sun like a team of drab green olive aliens from another land. All collectively outstretching their fingers in recognition of a planet from their own solar system, sleeping today, yet appearing to be ready for action at a moment's notice. Beyond these on a large central cement pad area I saw lines of fully clad American marines in what looked like lines of chess pawns all drilling in unison under marshal orders. In the background was spread out a row of tin roofed barrack huts. I dismounted and parked outside a large sliding open door and timidly stood in its entrance peering inside. For a country boy, what I saw was beyond any imagination or expectancy. Firstly the strong smell of diesel fuel like nothing I had experienced before, even from the farm behind our house. American soldiers of all shapes and sizes most of them sporting what looked like the baldness like condition of a very short haircut that we at school would have called a “crew cut”. They were all communicably dressed in the unison style of baggy green trousers, some wearing matching green jackets with their name, rank and number stitched above their top right hand breast pocket. They were all in the various stages of current "auto" maintenance. Bending over, crouching, laying, crawling or simply standing over what seemed an uncountable number of vehicles and tanks. Yet all, yes all, either chewing gum or had hand rolled oil soaked cigarette draping out of their mouths. My movement in so much as blocking the light somewhat at the doorway must have been the distraction that caught the eye of the nearest mechanic to me. He looked up with a smile “Ya lookin` fer, Thunderballs?" he called out. "Thunderballs..Whats Thunderballs?" I thought. The diversion had also caught the eye of a familiar face to me that presented itself from the next truck along, Corporal Cartwright. The other marine in the Jeep last weekend. This name was soon to be corrected when I stood in complete and utter nervousness just twelve inches away and read the name from his jacket as Wainwright. Why, I thought do these men from another country need the requirement of their name to be advertised on their clothing at all times, does America have so many similar situations in its country that their name can be forgotten so fast? Only too true I suppose, as I had just proved. "Here to help out? He said “Then what's` yer name boy?" "J..John Spooner sir, remember me from last week in the Jeep" I stuttered. Without any reply of past recognition he spoke "Well Spooner, let’s start by picking up every canteen mug in sight, every cigarette stub, every dirty rag, every gum wrapper and every chewed gum piece within eyesight and not. We have a major inspection on Tuesday and we want to shine...right son?" I said nothing in reply. "Right?" the voice came back only louder. "Oh yes right" I replied. "Sir" came back the bellow again. "Sir" I said. "Then let’s get crackin` Spooner" Corporal Wainwright hollered. Using the little experience that I had gained at Jackson’s I remember that Mr.Jackson had always taught me to pick up using one of those empty cardboard boxes that contained the tins of whitewash that he was one day going to use on the garage (but never did). But this place wasn't like that. It was vast and active and exciting. But what I did find was a large grease can, sort of empty, at least enough for me to cover its thick black remains in rags in a fast ten minutes or so. I remember it well; I took fifteen greasy can loads to the dump bin behind the workshop that day, before it was "sort of" tidied up. Over the day time I was there, one by one each and every mechanic looked up and gave their style of visual address as a new face entered their workplace world. Some smiled in a “Hi ya kid” Type of greeting and some some scowled in resistance to the situation. In awe I could see what looked like a representative from every corner of the world being on display that day in the form of one mechanic or another, a never before seen sight in Teignmouth.. Oh, accept for The Fortes family, who owned the ice - cream parlor in town, they were apparently Italian. But I was confused to see more than one or two representations from what looked like a Japanese area. Wasn't America currently at war with this country? If so then why was..... “Spooner" came a scream from the other end. “Up here boy, help with these crates. Corporal Wainwright stood at the far end in front of the large sliding doors; his legs apart as once before with his large fists clenched on his waist in a demanding pose. "Yes sir" I shouted back in a now new found confidence, and I ran to his demand. "Pick up the entire crate nails off the floor here Spooner, and stack the wood slats outa the way against the wall" he said. Now if enough excitement for one day hadn't already been adequate for my shallow exposure to the world outside Devon. I looked over to the corner where one of the many crates had been opened for sometime for a preliminary military inspection. There in various stages of mechanical completion lay parts for a partly assembled motorcycle and a matching sidecar some distance from it and not yet attached. On its petrol tank the words Harley-Davidson were expressing themselves to the viewer, like a wrestler forcing the world to focus on their overly muscled chest before an upcoming fight. An over abundance of greased paper and shredded wood packaging lay in total abandoned ruin. The site looked not unlike the wholesale destruction seen around a tree on Christmas morning each year after the children had done their annual worst. In later years when recounting this scene I'm sure the inner frenzy and pure adrenaline rush emitted by those American mechanics undertaking the required assembly at that time, from the pure crates contents was none the less than that of a Christmas morning to each and every one of them, now knowing its patriotic relativity. I was ordered to pick up and tidy the strewn goings on, which I did to the best of my abilities. At least I went through the motions of the current required order by stacking all of the packaging back into what remained of the single crate, whilst my staring eyes were transfixed in the direction of the assembly being carried out by the four men. "Fine machine ain't she buddy" Came a deep drawly voice from the top of the tank directly to the crates side. It was a Negro mechanic that had been working on the Sherman closest to me. He jumped down from the top to land not four feet away from me with a hefty sixteen stone thud. I hadn't ever seen a black man in real life before, only in the school geography books and bibles. Suddenly my focus left the motorcycle assembly area to boldly stare in uncontrolled rudeness at this new phenomenon. George. Private 3622713B was his name. His large eyes were sort of a dark yellowish where the white should have been and matched the colour of his badly broken teeth. His nostrils were bigger than any nose that I had ever seen and sat almost flat on his face...even Colin Biggs` nose at school wasn’t quite as big as Georges. Although it was a fairly coolish spring afternoon, his skin presented itself in an all over perspiration unlike the other men. But his smile was that of a positive and friendly attitude and I felt at ease when spoken to. “What will you be using these motorcycles for, sir?" I asked. "Call me George there, boy, and what is your name?" he asked as he threw me a Wrigley strip. "John Spooner" I replied. "Well Johnny, I'm not too sure, maybe deliveries or summit like it" he said "But forty...weeeell me thinks it's a fixin` somewhat by ol` Thuderballs” He said scratching his bald head whilst holding his cap with the same hand. “`cos he rides `em back in Californ i a, an weez don’t be aneedin forty of `em fer deliveries” George's` breath ranked with the foul odour coming from the remaining stub of an unlit dirty old cigar wedged into the far side of his mouth, unlit, yet being sucked and chewed on every few seconds or so. The Wrigley's did absolutely nothing for the current breath situation at all. "PLATOON `SHUN" bellowed out a loud voice from somewhere down at the other end. Then as if a tornado had hit, all shapes and sizes of men sprung or slid from their various locations in response to the order. All the tools noisily clanged their way to the floor as the men dropped them and ran to the front of their corresponding vehicles, promptly lining up shoulders back and heads up in a sudden roaring silence. I felt my self crouch down behind the open crate and then over a silent moment that lasted until what seemed eternity came the clack, clack, clack, clack of an in time march, increasing in volume with each step. As my eyes peeked over the top edge I saw from the far right hand side Sgt. McKinnon escorted by Corporal Wainwright in subordinate yet rapid tow, but marching at the same pace. At the same speed as his entry Sgt. McKinnon patrolled the line up without the traditional hesitation to stop for corrections or complaints as I had heard that happens from the boys in Air Cadets at school. After patrolling the line up he marched at the same speed back from the end and stopped at a spot that looked like a pre-rehearsed accurately measured centre position. He put his hands behind his back and without changing the stone look that his face showed, commenced. “At ease men.” He paused and took a long deep breath. “Men.... today is Saturday. At 2200 hours on Tuesday, we are joining forces with American Naval Platoon 4140 from camp Dartmouth in a combined military maneuver under the heading of Operation Tiger” (Dartmouth....Dartmouth…...I remember it well...my mum and dad took us for a picnic there just before he was called up. It was about twenty miles away by the sea, oh yes it also had a Naval College. That he hoped for me to join in a few years, I think.). “So gentlemen, speed up your current assignments and complete your work by Monday a full code red is called on this current issue men." Where upon he spun on the spot to a perfect ninety degrees and they both marched out. The line up broke up and without any small talk went back to their previous assignments. I feel sure had he known that at that time myself, an alien being, encroaching on his territory, was present and within hearing range this speech would not have taken place. When finally standing up my watch caught on one of the crates` nails, drawing attention to the fact that had become 4.35 p.m.!!!! Crap, I'm late for starting back home. From behind the crate I walked, stepping without too much care over the miscellany of mechanical wonders that went to make up this so-called U.S. wonderment. Running passed the front row of surely looking tanks to the end of the warehouse. Then glancing back over my shoulder for a moment to take just one more mental memory view before cycling home, only to run into Corporal Wainwright marching forward. "Sirens started have they Spooner?" he said. "Germans in the kitchen?" "No sir I'm late for home" I replied. "Be here at 700 hours next week Spooner, we need more help with those crates" and with that he saluted with a smile. "Yes sir" I smiled and returned the action. The ride back over the Moors that afternoon was the fastest ride of no effort that to this very day I had experienced. However it took more than the usual exertion that evening to open that wood shed and once more sling the old bicycle in, I was exhausted. The days of the coming week once again rained hard, even for April on the coast of Devon, yet it must have been in a sort of knowing inclination to the up and coming tragedy, the intensity of which I was at that point in time far from understanding. Saturday however, became dry but a cold one after the past weeks weather. I needed to wear gloves and my winter coat for that hour of the morning, as Corporal Wainwright had ordered me in for seven a.m. and that meant me leaving at six a.m., all very dark and early and with no bicycle lights! Down the long curving hill that lead into Chudleigh and on through the village. Healthy warmth had now enshrouded my once cold body and I began to become excited at the upcoming day as the Heathfield Barracks became into sight up ahead. I stopped in self-proclaimed official dom at the guard house to sign with full confidence with the M.P. Then to me, a sense of eeriness in the air suddenly prevailed the military base. No personnel were to be seen. "Spooner?" said the guard in a low strange tone. "Yes sir" I replied. "Spooner, Sgt. C. McKinnon no longer requires your assistance" he spoke with the same eeriness that I was experiencing. But now I was in total shock I was without a comment to reply with. The guard handed me a green American five dollar note, an item I had again only read about of in the Marvel comics, and said that "The Sgt. McKinnon wishes to thank you for your dedication and for you to have your pay from last week"...... What was this all about I’d been given the sack? The Yanks had given me the sack? "Move on John" said the M.P. with a strange tremour in his voice and a strange look in his eyes. Something wasn't quite right here, that much I could tell even at the age of fourteen. For all my naïve Devonshire exposure to the real world, what was I missing? Stuffing the five-dollar bill into my front pocket and squinting into the early mornings sun I saw the movement of construction vehicles off in the distance where the lines of Sherman tanks used to sit in green pride. I dropped my bicycle into the grass verge and held on to the rusty chain link fence, in order that I could get a better look at the mysterious goings on that I was currently witnessing. A backhoe digger was gouging out the ground where the tanks used to be and a crane was individually placing, like personal coffins, the thirty or so remaining motorcycle crates into the ground. After a short while the handful of men, assisted by the backhoes, proceeded to fill in the shoveling of the day, with earth until level. Then that was that....nothing more occurred. One by one all the engines had been turned off and the handful of men had slowly returned to the barracks. This opposing quiet suddenly and unorthodoxly left me with what seemed like the long, horrible, cold, world of silence only to be experienced by a deaf person, broken into only occasionally to me by the chirping coming from the two hedge sparrows happily flying back and forth catching the insects along the top of the grass verge in the mornings` sun. I strained my neck at an angle in order that I might possibly get a clearer view of the inside of the warehouse that I had been working in the weekend before. It was completely empty, it contained nothing. Then I looked at my watch in confusion, just to make sure that I wasn’t too late or something……… it had just past ten thirty-five. I mounted Steves` bicycle once
again and slowly and coldly in total confusion rode finally back through the
village of Chudleigh towards Teignmouth for the last time. On
the night of Tuesday April 28th 1944 at 11.00 hours a combined American Army
and Navy special maneuver known as Operation Tiger was undertaken from the
beaches of Slapton Sands near Dartmouth in Devon. Slapton Sands was to be
used as the representation for the now famous Utah beach simulation site
used for the upcoming planned D-Day landings of June 3rd 1944. It comprised
of eight Destroyers, four Minesweepers and three American style M.T.B. boats
as an allied troop patrol support flotilla in the applied action. The
simulated attack on Slapton Sands also included sixty-eight Landing Craft of
soldiers, Sherman Tanks, Army trucks and their relative supporting Heavy
artillery in the action. It was to be a live ammunition operation. Unknown to this planned attack was that earlier on in the
evening nine German E-boats had set out on their standard routine nighttime
patrol from the then German occupied port of Cherbourg in France .Once
witnessed and identified the German submarines attacked with a full force
approach. In complete surprise the Americans were caught and defeated in
just minutes, without an American shot being fired in retaliation. Most of
the flotilla was lost, together with the tragic total of five hundred and
fifty one Americans dead or missing in action. Those warehouses at Heathfield that had been temporally converted to an. American military base during that time were then to stand empty in disrepair and the grounds overgrown for the twenty five years that past since that summer of 1944. Until one day in 1970, when they were purchased and converted into an engineering manufacturing plant known as Centrax Gears. Today, it can now be found as one of the first buildings that still exists in what’s known as The Heathfield Industrial Estate. Since 1970 four professional attempts have been made to find the 30 or so missing crates containing Harley Davidson motorcycles but with no success. They all still lay buried somewhere deep in that rapidly undertaken secret location. Slapton Sands offers annual holidaymakers, some of them older Americans, its pleasures every summer without fail. To the people knowledgeable of its history, this also includes one of the original surviving American Sherman tanks from that horrendous night mounted on a memorial plinth in respect, yet sadly tucked away at the back corner of the beach's` car park. Despite the many thoughts given to the reader throughout this entire story, it was however not about me, but based on a story told to me by a man bearing the name of John Spooner. After the war was over John was apprenticed as a Toolmaker with a local company in Newton Abbot, Devon known as Centrax. In 1969 I also became apprenticed with Centrax and John Spooner was assigned to teach me throughout the five years of my Tool making apprenticeship. After telling me this story in bits and pieces over a period of a months towards the final days of my indentured term, he with pride, reached into the bottom drawer of his toolbox and proudly produced the five dollar American “green-back” that he earned that day and had kept as a memento since. He then passed its ownership on to me for safe keeping on the promise, between men, that I would never spend it in a private honour and respect of the five-hundred and fifty-one men that died that night. Noting the five dollars relativity to the five-hundred and five units of humanity. John died in 1983 of lung
cancer, but here today I am still the proud possessor of that American
five-dollar and its part of England's` history. The
story is written in memory of this man………. Mr. John Spooner.
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