The Lawbuild Blog

In his letter the Headmaster of my old school reminded me of my promise made a couple of years earlier to donate certain memorabilia to its proposed museum project.  The new Humanities Forum, in which mine and other items bearing on the history of the School were to be incorporated, would be opened shortly.  The Headmaster confirmed that I would be a welcome guest at the evening opening ceremony, and said he would be obliged if I could send my contributions to the School in short order.

 

These items included: information for parents of new boys, including School rules (September 1956); an official photograph of the entire School (Easter 1960); and a complete set of my School reports (1956 to 1961).

 

Though these were precious possessions I had no hesitation in parting with them.  I far preferred them to be displayed where they could be seen and appreciated by many people for as long as the School exists, than to lie in a file that would, in all probability, be thrown away after I am gone.  So after taking some photocopies I posted my material to the Headmaster.

 

The history of Westcliff High School for Boys is reasonably well known to those who passed through it.  A major event, well documented in the exhibition, was the evacuation of the School to Belper during the Second World War.  But aside from such landmarks the School’s history is essentially marked by its headmasters, each of whom seems to have held office for around twenty years.  In my time the head was Henry Cloke, a man of immense gravitas whose wisdom and other qualities I was able to appreciate both then and now.  (He died in 1994.)

 

I had every intention of attending the opening ceremony for the Humanities Forum, which was of course to be held in the School itself.  More than 45 years had passed since I had left it, and I had long been curious to see what it was like now.  To that end I had joined the Old Westcliffians Association in the 1990s, but had not attended any of its functions because either they were not being held at the School or the date was inconvenient.  This time I was determined to be present.

 

If you are going to make a nostalgic visit to a place you knew best during daytime, then time your visit for the hours of daylight.  I definitely lost something by visiting the School after dark; I could not see it properly in its surroundings, or fully appreciate the views from within (such as they were).  But I did not lose everything by any means.

 

The visit was for me a magical occasion, during large parts of which I was simply communing with myself and comparing what I now saw with what I could remember.  Much was the same or similar, much was different.  The assembly hall seemed little changed, as did the one classroom that was open (and which had those high windows that let in the light without affording us boys the distraction of a beautiful view over the playing fields).  The classroom might well have been one I had once occupied.  The antiquated-looking central heating radiators could have been, perhaps were, the same as those which in my day had blasted out their unregulated heat (thermostats weren’t so universal then as they are now), though these cast iron relics seemed shorter than I remembered.  The quadrangles were identical, but not the open spaces formerly enclosed by them, into which the School had effectively extended itself.  The main entrance hall was probably much the same, though I didn’t recall it.  The staff room was in the same corner as I remembered it, though possibly in a different room.  The exploration I undertook in order to make these comparisons absorbed me utterly during much of the visit.

 

During this reverie I noticed people sitting inside the assembly hall (still of course in its old location between the two quadrangles).  As I peered in, an authoritative gentleman, whom I correctly assumed to be the headmaster, enquired, "Are you going in?"  I switched into my literal mode, which is well known to my associates, and answered, "I don't know.  What's going on in there?"  With a touch of impatience Mr Baker informed me that this was "the continuation of the evening" and directed me to the back of the hall.  I wandered in, a beatific smile on my face.  I had not woken, after all.  I was still a schoolboy and the headmaster was telling me, "Stop daydreaming, Lewis.  Go in and sit at the back, boy."  Yes, sir.

 

My contributions, along with many others, were displayed most professionally.  My panoramic photo, about a metre long, of the whole school at Easter 1960, appeared with a few others belonging to different eras.  Only about half of my reports were displayed, unfortunately not including the one for the Lent Term 1957 when I came top of the form.  (There were no School reports other than mine, by the way.)  The caption kindly noted that I had had a successful School career, and with whatever objectivity I possess, and allowing for some poor results in subjects I had little interest in, I think that was a fair assessment.  In particular I had been “promoted”, in 1959, from Form 3B to Form 4A, and thence in 1960 – skipping the Fifth Form entirely – to Lower Sixth Arts.  Would that I had made more of my promising results, had resisted the temptation to join the world of work so early, and had gone on to University.  But I was not content - I cannot now remember exactly why - so my parents agreed to take me out of the School in 1961.

 

The display also described the masters’ comments in my reports as “concise”, which they were: just a line or two such as “Very good progress” (English), “Remains weak” (Physics); or occasionally something a bit longer: “He must revise his Geometry thoroughly if he is to pass.  He has the ability and must make a tremendous effort in the next few weeks.”

 

The Headmaster, Mr A.J. Baker - by this time I had stopped pretending to be a schoolboy and we were speaking man to man - told me that these days reports had to be much longer and must state what the pupil has to do in order to improve.  But to what end?  It was always obvious to me that in order to do better I must pay more attention, study harder, take more pains over my written work; on the not sufficiently frequent occasions when I did so, my results improved, and when my laziness prevailed they did not.

 

My copy of the School rules was displayed with comments to the effect that they were clearly intended to be complied with.  That was true enough, but in practice the regime was somewhat liberal and I am certain that many of the rules were habitually broken with no attempt at enforcement.  Boys did not invariably obey the injunction not to “shout, talk in loud tones or indulge in any horse-play in the streets or in any public conveyance.”  They did cycle to School, as I did, without a permit signed by the form master.  They undoubtedly were known to talk in the passage between the two quadrangles and on the way to Morning Assembly.  There were 24 rules in all, my personal favourite being Rule 1: “Any breach of law or by-laws or of common sense and good manners is a breach of School Rules.”

 

Also exhibited were the programme and menu for a dinner held to mark the retirement of my old headmaster, Henry Cloke, in 1970.  I was present at that dinner (which was not held at the School), and recall approaching Henry after the meal and introducing myself.  The great man, who had known the names of all his six or seven hundred pupils at any given time, had evidently forgotten mine as he responded: “Ah, yes, Lewis: mathematician at Leicester.”

 

As I perused the photographs on display I noted that some of the masters who had taught me had been staff members from the very establishment of the School on its present site in 1926.  I had known, and vividly remembered, these legendary men.  I was not merely a guest or an Old Boy; I was a living link between the School’s origins and its present.

 

Listening to the excellent speech made during the opening ceremony by the Head Boy, I felt great pride, and a sense of connection to this young man and his fellow pupils who, like me, were the product of this place.  Essex is not especially reknowned for its centres of excellence, and yet here was an outstanding one, fit to stand comparison with any grammar or public school in the land, both in my time and today.

 

The headmaster and other speakers referred to the School's impressive capital programme, involving expenditure of more than four million pounds on various building projects including the extension whose opening we were celebrating.  Of course we Old Boys respect and admire the School and its leaders for conceiving and carrying through this programme of works with drive and efficiency.  But that is not why we revere the School.  We revere the School because it has preserved and enhanced those values which it imbued in us as schoolboys and which have sustained us ever since, and because it has instilled them in succeeding generations over eight decades and in the face of a general and continuing deterioration in the educational and moral principles of the nation.

 

Several days having passed since my visit to the School, I suddenly remembered my conversation with Henry Cloke on the day of my departure in the summer of 1961.  Shaking my hand, he extended an invitation that I was to take only too literally: “Goodbye, Lewis.  Come back and see us – but not too soon.”

David Lewis writes:

 

In 2000 my father, Bernard Lewis, handed me a tattered manuscript which he informed me was his war memoirs, and instructed me to publish it on the Internet.

 

I pause to mention that my father, by then in his late eighties, knew of the information superhighway only by reputation.  But he was well aware that it represented a cheap and effective way of disseminating those stories that he was so keen to tell the wider world.

 

Bernard Lewis served in the British Army between 1940 and 1946, in the latter part of that period participating in the Normandy landings and helping to run prisoner-of-war camps in liberated France and Belgium.

 

Those fateful years are now distant history, though in my boyhood they seemed - and were - only the day before yesterday.  But time did not dim my father's memory, which he periodically refreshed by telling and retelling his war stories, first to my brother Victor and me, and later to his grandsons Daniel and Oliver.

 

After passing me his initial manuscript the memories must have come flooding back, as my father continued his writing and after every visit to his home over several weeks I would walk away with fresh manuscripts.  I laboriously typed them up, putting them in rough chronological order (not too difficult for me, as I was already familiar with many of the stories) and inserting suitable subtitles until a coherent, interesting, and above all authentic memoir emerged.

 

In January 2003 my dear mother, Rachel Lewis, passed away, leaving my father bereft.  A year later he followed her; "Like the old soldier of legend he faded away", as Victor put it in his eulogy at the memorial service.

 

I shall never tire of reading and re-reading these stories, animated as they are by my father's dry humour which still has the power to make me laugh out loud.

 

David Lewis

 

"Your feet will be as good as new"

 

I was called up in September 1940 to the Royal Armoured Corps in Warminster.  The following day I and my fellow recruits stood in line outside the Medical Officer's tent which had been pitched on the lawn.  Then began the series of inoculations which was to follow us throughout our army careers.  I learned early not to watch the needle going into my arms and everybody else's arms.  For some reason this had the effect of causing big strong men to faint long before they reached the "roll up your sleeves" stage.

 

Our six weeks' training involved compulsory five-mile marches.  I had always had trouble with my bunions, and now the combination of hard, ill-fitting boots and unusual pressure on the big toes left my feet bleeding badly.  The M.O.  sent me to an Army specialist and I was downgraded from A1 to B2.  The specialist told me that he could cure my condition by breaking my big toes and resetting them.  "Your feet will be as good as new." However, if I exercised my right not to have the operation I was given the alternative of being transferred to the Pioneer Corps.

 

I chose the Pioneer Corps.  It's worth mentioning that after I was demobbed, a colleague of mine revealed that he had had a similar problem and had been bullied by his M.O.  to have the operation.  He had never had any trouble with his feet in the past but now regarded himself as seriously incapacitated.

 

Soldiers on parade

 

In 1940 while I was doing my basic training at Warminster I participated in the monthly CO's parade.  To the stirring sound of a three-piece brass band we marched past the saluting base.  A number of local civilians came to watch the show.  Rachel, my wife, had rented a room in town and she too was among the onlookers lining the route.  As we marched along I could see her anxiously scanning the black berets to see me in my new militaristic role.  I too had got into an anxious state as it looked as though she would have to forego the excitement of seeing me in step with hundreds of others.  As we passed where she was standing I turned my head to attract her attention.  Immediately a tremendous roar went up from the throats of every non-commissioned officer present: "Face the front, that man!"  I "faced the front" so rapidly that I gave myself a crick in the neck, but Rachel saw me in all my glory and that's what mattered at the time.

 

Normally there isn't anything humorous about soldiers on parade, but we found one name sufficient to amuse us.  His name was Hooper and, childish though it sounds now, we all grinned when the sergeant called out, "Trooper Hooper!"

 

But more was to come - you've guessed it - the new intake included a man named Cooper.

 

Rachel had been evacuated to Marazion in Cornwall, some 150 miles away.  It was Easter time and the number of parades had been reduced for the holiday period.  Not that it mattered to me - I had decided to visit my wife in Cornwall without a pass and hang the consequences.  I made my way back on Easter Monday and went straight to my barrack room, where I expected to hear cries of, "You're for it, mate" and "See you in the glasshouse", instead of which they announced that I had not been missed.  Apparently there had been only two parades during the holiday period and my mates, bless 'em, had responded, "Here, sergeant" when my name was called.

 

The illegal leave, and the possibility of being apprehended by "redcaps", had so occupied my mind that there was no room left for depression - at least that's what I told myself.

 

A free ride

 

I was then sent on a course in Southampton to qualify as a motor mechanic.  While I was on this course I had occasion to use the bus service.  At that time I was one of the first soldiers to wear a black beret, and when I sat down and offered my fare the conductress pushed my hand away and announced for all to hear, "My husband's in the Tank Corps - I'm not taking fares from anyone wearing a black beret!"

 

"Excused boots"

 

After the course I returned to Warminster, where I was allocated to work in an experimental workshop.  This didn't last long and around August 1941 I was adjudged to be suffering from "Hallux Vulgus and arthritis (both feet) excused army boots & to wear his own shoes".  This was a fancy way of describing bunions.

 

Keeping his hand in

 

I was transferred to the Pioneer Corps and ordered to proceed to a place enchantingly called "Middle Wallop".  When I got there several of us newcomers were paraded outside the Orderly Room and corporals from each platoon selected a man each and marched them off to the appropriate hut.  It was for all the world like a slave market with no money changing hands.

 

In an atmosphere which was rapidly becoming surrealistic the corporal who had chosen me hissed in my ear, "Can you be trusted?" This is not a question which is thrown at you every day, and I stalled by mumbling, "I think so".  "Wotcher mean, 'I think so'?", he snarled at me, "Don't you know?"  "Well, yes, corporal."

 

Following this exciting exchange of repartee I was shown my bed.  On the same evening the mystery of the corporal's curiosity regarding my integrity was revealed.  The stove in the middle of the hut was stoked up and a soldier glided in.  There was something purposeful and professional in the way he entered.  He immediately shed his battledress jacket, and to my startled gaze there fell to the floor bread, butter, and a large quantity of bacon.  Everybody had their particular task to perform, and before long enormous sandwiches were being thrust into equally enormous mouths.  The corporal tapped me on the shoulder and said quietly, "See what I mean?" It appeared that our benefactor had gained access to the ration store with a home-made key, and in civilian life he was a burglar.  At the moment he was "keeping his hand in".

 

It later transpired that our unit was under orders to escort thousands of prisoners to Canada.  It was during this period that we were losing a great number of ships in the Atlantic, and this news was very worrying.  We were sent home on embarkation leave and I was suddenly recalled to Aldershot by telegram.  This removed any doubt as to where we were going.  We heard later with great relief that we were taking over a PW camp in England.  It appeared that this camp had run completely wild.  The Commandant was drunk most of the time; the officers and men had stolen a sheep from a neighbouring farm and roasted it.  The reason for our unit being chosen to "clean up" the camp was because our Commandant was an ex-Scotland Yard detective.

 

The war of Luigi's ear

 

When people know that I worked in a PW camp they frequently ask how I got on with the prisoners, and did the Germans pose any problems.  The truth is that, in common with most of my colleagues, I preferred dealing with Germans rather than with Italians.  The Germans would obey an order immediately.  The Italians, however, would either treat an order as a joke, or try to tell you where you were going wrong.

 

What can you do when an Italian PW pulls your ear and shouts, "Luigi"?  I discovered that on that day it was the feast of Saint Luigi and it was the custom to pull the ear of anyone of that name.  Luigi was the nearest they could get to Lewis.  I couldn't imagine a German doing that.

 

All Quiet on the Western Front

 

Many will remember the book "All Quiet on the Western Front", one of the earliest anti-war books, published after the first world war.  This book made a deep impression on me at the time, particularly the description of the latrines.  Ours, like those in the book, were located in the middle of a field adjacent to our camp.  It consisted of a long board with large holes cut out at intervals.  The board was supported at each end by oil drums.  A concession to modesty was made by smelly pieces of hessian hanging down to separate the seated men.  This was "All Quiet on the Western Front" all over again.  A clear case of déja vu.  Every day saw a procession of soldiers trudging purposefully across the fields.  At night they were guided by the flickering light of a single hurricane lamp.  Most of the light that was offered by this lamp was obscured by the clouds of cigarette smoke which rapidly enveloped the area.  When I first witnessed this spectacle it was as though I had entered a time warp.  Was it possible that a book published in 1928 was still influencing me some 14 years later? How do I deal with the necessity of accompanying my comrades on the daily trek across the field? Eventually, as was inevitable, I joined them in the philosophical discussions that raged behind the hessian, and accepted that constipation was for the squeamish.

 

Building an invasion HQ

 

My unit of Pioneer Corps consisted of ex-coalminers and ex-building labourers.  We were burrowing into a cliff on the south coast in our task of building what was to be the HQ of Combined Operations, which was later to be in control of the invasion of Europe.  The weather was fine, and we dug and drilled stripped to the waist.  When winter came I was put onto the task of erecting Nissen huts.  The corrugated iron roof had to be bolted into place, and in order to do this I had to hold on with one hand to avoid slipping off.  The temperature was well below zero, and I was suddenly aware that my hand had frozen to the iron roof.  I noticed it just in time, and apart from losing a few square inches of skin I came to no harm.

 

Refusing a promotion

 

My brother Harold was the Orderly Room Sergeant in an Italian prisoner-of-war camp just outside Cambridge.  He had discovered that at that time a soldier had the right to be stationed with an older brother.  I made application accordingly, and my Commanding Officer offered to promote me to the rank of Lance-Corporal if I would stay in the unit.  I turned the offer down.  In due course I was transferred to Harold's PW camp, and settled down to what I thought would be the remainder of the war.

 

I was then offered a three-month course in PW documentation in Russell Square.  This seemed reasonably attractive.  "Reasonably", because the blitz was heavy in London at the time, and I wondered many times whether I should have stayed where I was, understudying brother Harold.  After my course had ended I returned to Cambridge and within a fortnight was posted to a tented camp to take part in the formation of another PW camp.

 

"Come on and fight, you square-headed bastards!"

 

The last few days had been spent in crude bivouacs in a wood.  As we lay on the ground the song of the nightingale could be heard in the trees above us.  The song was recognisable even by us "townees" because the BBC frequently interrupted the late night big bands to make its sweet sound familiar to those who could afford a "wireless" set.

 

The combination of bird song, homesickness and fearful anticipation of what lay ahead of us must have had an effect, and I found that tears were running down my cheeks.

 

The talk in the unit had been dominated by guessing our role in the coming invasion of mainland Europe.  There was a forced bravado in the discussion.  Several men drew their bayonets and yelled, "Come on and fight, you square-headed bastards", with variations on that theme.

 

Foreign money

 

We didn't know it at the time but it was about a week before D-day.  Our convoy of three-ton lorries and landing craft tanks had reached the beach of the Humber and we went on board.  We took the opportunity to remove our packs, and stretched our limbs.  On our way to the beach women and girls walked alongside the slow procession of vehicles and pressed fruit and home-made cake on us.  A clergyman stood on the steps of his church and blessed us on our way.

 

We must have been amongst the earliest to know that our destination was somewhere in France.  A kiosk had been set up on the beach and we were invited to change our money into French francs.  Very few of us had had the experience of using a foreign currency and there was a general reluctance to part with our "quids", "bobs" and "tanners" for suspiciously new five-franc notes.

 

 

To foil enemy dive-bombers every craft in the convoy towed a barrage balloon.  We also carried an anti-aircraft gun.  Two of the sergeants on board almost came to blows when an enemy aircraft was sighted and each wanted to man the gun.  By the time the matter was resolved the plane was gone.

 

Water was now at a premium.  There was enough for tea, and if we wanted to shave we were told to use what was left of our tea.  The easiest way out was not to shave, and it was a relief when we gave the razors a rest.

 

On the beach

 

Our craft was skippered by a young civilian.  He observed many of the men on other craft finishing up to the waist in water and he yelled to us to wait until the ramp could be put down further along the beach where we stepped ashore high and dry.  Soldiers from other craft were being dragged backwards in the water with the weight of their packs.  I took my pack off one shoulder so that it could be ditched quickly if necessary.  Those soldiers around me followed my example.

 

As I put my feet down on the sand, the excitement that had built up for the last hour or so crystallised into my chanting to myself, "I'm abroad, I'm abroad!"  Never did I dream that my ambition to visit foreign parts would be realised in such a dramatic fashion.

 

It is safe to say that very few on our craft had seen a dead body before.  It was a rude introduction to the facts of life, and death, when we saw on the beach the bodies of six British soldiers, covered by a rough blanket.  These were British bodies and inwardly we mourned for them.  Not long afterwards we came across dead German soldiers, and we looked at them without emotion.  We were puzzled at first that the Germans were, without exception, barefooted.  We later learned that the local farmers and farm workers helped themselves to German boots and socks almost before their owners were dead.

 

A white tape stretched across the beach and an officer with a loudhailer screamed at us to keep to the tape or get blown up.  On each side of us were men of the Royal Engineers on their knees, gently probing the sand in their search for mines.  An officer stood behind them, grim-faced, as though to say, "Whatever happens, I'm with you."

 

The battle for Caen

 

We know now that it was planned to reach the town of Caen on D-day, but it turned into a major obstacle, preventing the Allies from moving inland.  From our tented camp we witnessed the Flying Fortresses and Lancaster reduce Caen to rubble, and we had to use excavators to clear a path through Caen for tanks and trucks.  Some of the bombers were in flames, and parachutes floated down on both sides of the lines.  That night several of us slept in a bell tent, feet towards the centre pole and dogfights between fighter planes were going on above us.  Suddenly the man next to me screamed and attempted to get up.  He was obviously severely injured and we called the M.O.  and found that a shell had penetrated his chest.  Such was the force of the shell that it had carried his blanket about ten inches into the ground.  The unfortunate man died before daybreak.

 

We then set up what was known as a Reinforcement Holding Unit.  The Engineers had wired the field with a Tannoy system, with loudspeakers at each corner of the field, and one of my duties was to call for the officer in charge of each detachment and he would be given his instructions.  We had set up a tent for this purpose and we kept in touch with news of the war from the BBC World Service.  It seemed a pity that we did not share this facility with the men in the field, who were hungry for news of how the war was going.  I switched to the Tannoy for the news, and after the first pip an amazing silence descended on all of us.  This was our reward.  After that, the news was switched on several times a day.

 

While waiting for our unit to get together, we explored the locality and discovered a village square with a well from which the whole village drew water.  We immediately removed our shirts and had a very welcome wash for the first time in about two weeks.  When we returned to our camp we saw a column of German troops marching in our direction.  Their sergeant-major halted them and, in excellent English, told me that they were surrendering and had abandoned their arms some way back.  I stopped some of our own troops going in the direction of the beach and they escorted the Germans into captivity.

 

I then rejoined my own unit and a young lieutenant was our officer-in-charge.  There was a lot of aerial activity in progress and he ordered us to dig a trench to be used as a shelter, if necessary.  When the trench was finished we went to have our evening meal.  The firing was getting heavier and we made for the trench.  When we reached it we found our lieutenant stretched out in it and sobbing bitterly.  Nobody jeered, and no mention was made later of the incident by him or by us.

 

The collaborator

 

We were less than half an hour on the bus to Brussels, and after we had spent a few days settling into our camp I wandered through some of the back streets.  A crowd had gathered in one street, and when I went closer to investigate I could hardly believe my eyes.  Three or four men were on a stationary horse-drawn cart.  There was a woman on the cart, and her head was being shaved by one of the men, who was evidently thoroughly enjoying his miserable task.  I asked a man standing next to me what it was all about and he replied in one word: "collaboratrice".  He too seemed to derive tremendous pleasure from what was being perpetrated, and he turned away from me and joined others who were shouting epithets at the wretched woman.  My first impulse was to get on the cart and free the woman, but I had the feeling that my Commanding Officer wouldn't thank me for getting involved with the local civilian population.

 

On the job

 

At last it seemed as though we were going to settle down.  We had been taken in trucks to Vilvoorde just north of Brussels and set up our prison camp.  It was a bit of a shock when we discovered a young Russian woman among the prisoners.  She wore German uniform, and when we tried to separate her from the others she simply refused to go and clung to a young German prisoner of war.  With the British capacity to keep everybody, or nearly everybody, happy, an officer ordered a tent to be put up for her.  She still refused to be separated from him, and eventually the tent was erected, and she and the boyfriend were soon fast asleep in each other's arms.

 

A soldier was put on guard at the tent, and when asked how things were going with the prisoners he said, "I looked in every ten minutes, as I was told, and they're always on the job." The incident was treated lightly at the time, but it became known later that when Russian soldiers were repatriated at the end of the war, Stalin gave orders to kill any Russian soldier wearing a German uniform.

 

A letter from home

 

In October 1944 I was sitting with my fellow corporal Tom Cotter in the dining room when the post corporal handed round the letters.  Mine was to inform me that I had become the father of a baby boy.  I passed the news on to Tom and he thumped on the table and announced, "Get on your feet and wish the best of luck to Corporal Lewis, who has just become a father."  The true celebration took place that evening in our usual café, when all the drinks were on me.

 

A quiet war for Harry

 

Looking back, it seems that everything happened to me during the time I was in uniform.  Unlike my old friend and colleague Harry Patten who was called up to the Navy at a shore establishment.  Harry was a fine jazz and classical pianist and made straight for the piano in the NAAFI.  Before long a crowd would gather round him.

 

One day he was sent for by the Commandant and ordered to play the piano every evening.  When I met Harry after the war he swore that in the five years he spent in the Navy he never boarded a dinghy, let alone a battleship.

 

Saga of the stripes

 

In common with civil servants, as a local government officer my salary was made up by the council I worked for, and there was no great incentive to seek promotion.  In England I was promoted to lance-corporal several times but was constantly being reduced to the ranks for being absent without leave.  I had become aware that, in accordance with the King's Regulations, if I was promoted to full corporal and held the rank for three months, only a court-martial could take the promotion away.

 

I was on friendly terms with our sergeant-major and he told me that he was recommending me for promotion to lance-corporal - that is, with one stripe.  I told him I was grateful for his proposed action, but as I kept on losing one stripe I would not accept anything less than two stripes.  He gaped at me and said, "I've bloody seen everything now - a private giving instructions as to his promotion".

 

The next day the sergeant-major stopped me and with simulated ferocity dug me in the chest and said, "Corporal Lewis, you are improperly dressed".  He was referring to the fact that I was not wearing two stripes and obviously he had persuaded the CO to promote me to the rank of full corporal.

 

My first flight

 

I had never flown before, and the circumstances under which I made my first flight were upsetting in more ways than one.  My father was seriously ill and I had been granted compassionate leave.  I was flown home in a Dakota,together with several other soldiers and six aircrew who had bailed out, fortunately over territory we had occupied.  These lads were full of high spirits and we were a bit alarmed when they started wrestling with each other, demanding to be nearest to the exit door.  They also made a great deal of the fact that they had parachutes and we had none.  I have to admit that we were taken in by the leg-pulling,which only stopped when they saw that we were really alarmed.

 

Another factor which makes me remember this flight is that it was at the time that Von Rundtstedt was making his last push and was throwing the Luftwaffe into a final desperate effort to avoid defeat.

 

A stroll through the fields

 

I know that I was pretty scared during this flight, but never have I been so scared as when two SS men escaped from our camp.  I had gone to a nearby village with a mate and he got involved with a family in the local café.  I didn't want to hang about, and I volunteered to go home on my own.  There were two ways from this village to our camp, but one took half an hour longer than the other.  The snag was that the short-cut had a crop which was about six feet tall.  With the thought of the SS men on the prowl, I started on my way back, pushing through the crop.  I imagined that I could hear rustling and voices all round me.  We were all under orders to carry our Sten guns, and I went so far as to release the safety-catch on my gun and was prepared to fire at any suspicious sound.  Happily our SS lads must have left the area and were not seen again.  But believe me - I was scared.

 

From the city, from the plough

 

The death took place recently of Alexander Baron, the novelist.  His best-known work is "From the City, From the Plough", an anti-war book based on his army experiences.  At one time we were in the same unit and he told me of his encounter with our Commanding Officer.  The CO was on his own in a bell tent and his radio could be heard giving the BBC's account of progress made in the invasion of Normandy.

 

Alec was keenly interested in military strategy and he had tiptoed as near as possible to the tent to hear the news.  He must have made a noise and the CO came out to see what was going on.  He rapped out, "What the hell are you up to, Baron?"  "I was listening to the news, sir"  "And what do you want with the news?"  Alec began to analyse the strategy of Eisenhower and Montgomery in so far as the current situation was concerned.  The CO then invited Alec into the tent and produced a map of Normandy.  Thereafter Alec regularly visited the CO for a joint detailed analysis of invasion tactics.

 

Remarkably enough, in January 2000 I discovered that Alexander and his wife were living about ten minutes' walk from my house.

 

Let them eat bread

 

Soon after Brussels was liberated we discovered large stores of food which were originally destined for consumption by German troops.  Most of the food consisted of brittle slices of toasted brown bread.  We were instructed to feed these to the prisoners.  We had, up to then, been feeding the prisoners with white bread brought over from England.  The prisoners sent a delegation to me to protest about the quality of the bread.  This had to be the classic example of chutzpah.  I told them that we would go back to white bread when the toast ran out and I couldn't resist indicating that, from the size of the food store, this was going to take a long time.

 

After the dance

 

It was part of my job to arrange dances in Vilvoorde and these were well attended by our soldiers and local girls.  the following day I took a three-tonner and six prisoners, together with two guards armed with Sten guns, down to the village hall where the prisoners were put to the task of cleaning up.

 

There had been fierce competition among the prisoners to be included in the party.  The reason for this became clear when they stuffed their pockets full of cigarette ends.  When we got back to camp the prisoners and guards jumped off the back of the lorry.  One of the guards had left the safety catch off his Sten gun, and the violence of jumping off caused the machine gun to fire rapidly.  Fortunately the gun was pointing to the ground and the soldier hopped frantically up and down to avoid the bullets hitting his feet.

 

The prisoners couldn't be blamed for thinking this was funny, and they were in hysterics.  By some miracle nobody was hurt, but the soldier concerned was never allowed to forget the incident.

 

Too proud to dive

 

I saw a man's life sacrificed because his pride wouldn't permit him to make an undignified dive into an air-raid shelter.

 

Together with many other ration corporals I was waiting in a queue in Belgium with my three-ton lorry in the street which led to the ration depot.  Suddenly we heard the roar of an aircraft above us and we could see clearly the crosses of a German fighter plane.

 

By good fortune we were above a street air-raid shelter and somebody yelled, "He'll be coming back!"  The man who uttered those words almost certainly saved several lives.  We threw ourselves down the steps which led to the shelter and within a few seconds the plane roared along the line of lorries, setting most of them on fire.

 

One corporal obviously refused to admit that discretion was the better part of valour and he swaggered slowly towards the shelter, but too late to avoid being riddled with cannon shell from the German fighter.

 

Taking the full Monty

 

I was demobilised with the comparatively humble rank of corporal.  It should have been Company Quartermaster Sergeant but because of my own action, quite unwittingly, I was denied that promotion.  But let me start at the beginning.

 

In December 1945 my father was very ill and I was given leave on compassionate grounds.  During the time that I was away the army introduced what was known as "Monty's leave".  The leave was given to those who were lucky in a lottery held in each unit, and my name was among those drawn out of the hat.

 

I was now faced with a difficult decision - do I take another leave, or do I graciously announce that I give way to the next on the list?  I was influenced in my decision by the fact that I had visited my father in hospital every day during my leave and had accordingly spent little time with my wife and baby son.  I decided to ignore general opinion and took the leave which fate had granted me.  When I rejoined my unit I found that I had been taken off my job as pay corporal and put on night guard duty.

 

This is where the Adjutant, the Regimental Sergeant-Major and the CQMS were a trifle hasty.  They could not find anyone in the unit who could successfully make sense of the pay system employed by the army.  Without going into great detail the RSM suffered the humiliation of having to take me off guard duty in order that the men would be paid as usual.

 

In terms of army politics this was a triumph for me, but a month or so later our CQMS fell ill and was sent back to England.  It was generally accepted that I would automatically be promoted to the vacancy.  However, this was not to be.  The Adjutant was heard to say, "While I am Adjutant, Corporal Lewis will get no promotion."

 

Which poses the question: was I right to take the second lot of leave?  Fifty years later and I still haven't decided.

 

Back to Civvy Street

 

I was demobilised in May 1946.  I thought it was a nice touch when, at the Civilian Clothing Depot at Northampton, the middle-aged man dealing with our documentation shook hands and said, "Good luck, Mister Lewis".

 

 

© David Lewis and Executors of the Estate of Bernard Lewis 2000-2004