THE HOME GUARD

“Don’t forget the key, Don” my mother called from the cozy , eiderdown depths of the bed in which my father, off to a night-time meeting of the British Home Guard, would have preferred to be. The date was July 5th. 1940. We were at war with Germany, and living then in Tadworth, Surrey the county in the south of England directly below London.

 

All over England, able bodied men, mostly too old for the draft , had volunteered to join the Home Guard…Britain’s slim hope of defense, come an invasion, against the massive might of the German army Panzer divisions rolling relentlessly towards the coast of northern France, a hop, skip and a jump away across the English channel.

 

Contrary to rumor, we have to presume that “The Enemy” had no spies of efficiency holed up in southern England at that time or else Hitler and his high command would have bust a gusset laughing or given , alternatively, a snort of derision upon receiving the coded message that Britain’s Defense amounted to nothing more dangerous than phalanxes of codgers hitching up their baggy trousers with one hand and adjusting their bi-focals with the other.

 

Tadworth’s Home Guard section habitually assembled at the local pub in Walton-On-The-Hill, the neighboring village famous for the “gorse and heather” beauty of it’s golf course. The pub was called “The Rat” and was on the far shore of The Mere pond where swans glided serenely over water infested, as I remember from my walks to primary school, with little rubbery black leeches. Surreal, indeed.

 

On this night, complaining quietly and muttering his discomfort, my father climbed into his “gardening” corduroy trousers, buttoned up an old cardigan and his oldest tweed jacket, pocketed the flashlight (torch, we called it) called a “ Goodnight, Darling’…I’m leaving now” to my mother and set off up Kingswood Road to catch a car lift with a neighbor for their rendezvous at the pub.

 

Initially thoroughly disorganized, and “catch-as-catch-can” the British Home Guard had yet to be issued uniforms or rifles. Arm bands they had but weapons, in the early days , were scarce as hen’s teeth. Home made Molotov Cocktails and pitchforks were their most familiar weapons in mid- summer of 1940. A few men carried hunting rifles which they already owned or old service revolvers left over from the first World War.

 

My father was a funny man and, consequently, popular and welcome wherever he went. “Here you go, Don” shouted Dave, the bartender at “The Rat”, slapping a pint of “bitters” onto the bar counter “Blow the froth off that one, you old bastard !” The furthest thing from insult, the greeting was an indication of genuine affection and respect.

 

Don was happy to oblige. Distillation of the grape or the grain – it was all the same to dear old Dad, a “bit of a boozer”. ( He was to arrive home in the wee hours, much later in his life , with two wooden posts and a long length of chain link fence draped across the hood of his car, and with no idea how it had got there !)

 

“Night-time Maneuvers” were scheduled for the Home Guard for that particular evening. So, old caps or balaclava helmets on their grey haired or balding heads, and swigging down the last dregs of beer, they tottered to their feet and assembled outside the pub to do their duty for King and Country. As my father later recounted the evening to his family, the maneuvers for that night were “One for the books, all right”

 

Their Section Commander, Derrick Button, was a fifty three year old veteran from the first world war. The householder amongst the group of neighbors with most military training and experience he offered his services, his candidacy unchallenged, most keen to mould his little troop of fathers and fitter retirees into a useful tool for the defense of England.

 

Sergeant Button positioned his troops into two lines and snapped them to attention. Instructed not to use their flashlights unless absolutely necessary, in case a German plane overhead had managed to evade the searchlights, spotted the erratically waving light sources below and dropped a bomb on them, the men stumbled off in single file, round the pond and off in the direction of Walton Common.

 

The Sergeant, in the lead, had said “No talking, Men, above a whisper…we don’t want the enemy getting a fix on our position…spread out and keep up….” Shuffling dispiritedly along, there were loud whispers of “ I had to leave a nice pork chop in the oven…the Missus had to queue for an hour to get it and it won’t taste the same when it’s warmed over…” and “Cor Blimey, shove this for a lark!”.and so on. They reached the edge of the Common

 

“Right, Men…gather round” came the Sergeant’s hoarse whisper in the night ..”Here’s the plan.” Glad of a rest the men shifted into a loose circle round their leader. “Our goal is the Siddons place the other end of the Common…and we’re going quietly and we’re going on our bellies.”

 

Muttered disapproval of the Sergeant’s sadistic plan brought life back into the group. “Stone the crows” said at least one warrior, unsteady on his pins since his “knees up” at the pub. A plaintive voice in the dark whined “ I should have eaten me chop before I come out..I don’t know if I’ll fancy it after this caper”

“Sarge…” a pipe-up from the crowd, “Where’s the Siddons place?”

“Oh, Gawd” answered the sergeant “Tell ‘im, somebody…NOW….spread out in a long line again and get down on the ground pushing your gun – if you’ve got one – and your kitbag along in front of you….’Ere, watch me”

 

Too old for the draft himself, but anxious to do his bit for the war effort. the “Sarge” flopped heavily into the knee-high bracken and grunted his way through the stalks for a yard or two. “That’s how it’s done, Lads… Piece of cake… Are you ready?” Despite the fact that nobody answered “Yes”, they spread out and obediently lowered themselves onto the green sward to commence their journey . There was a hoarse whisper from Sarge somewhere in the night, up front and making Herculean effort at example “Imagine there’s a Jerry behind every bush, Boys…keep on going…nice and quiet now.”

 

“I need to get behind a bush meself” breathed one anonymous wag, ”After all that beer.. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going..well, I know what’s coming, if I’m not extremely lucky… and this crawling’s not doing my kidneys any good..I can tell you that for nothing!” Soft chuckling in the vicinity of this remark rippled along the line of men.

 

Initial jocularity soon deteriorated into breathless wheezings, belchings and moans of exertion as bodies unused to such travail pushed forward over the grassy stubble and bracken stalks.

For the next twenty minutes, their progress was marked only by a cough or two, occasional flatus, and a softly breathed petition to The Almighty.

 

“OOhh” a falsetto shriek from the dark “We’ve got cows here ! My God, I just saw a huge head with absolutely enormous horns..It was looming right next to me. I just reared up and hit its legs with my billy-can but it’s still there, Sarge…can you call it over?”

 

“ Smyth-Gordon…Is that you?” Yes, I can tell that’s you” the Sergeant croaked, “All right..For your information, cows don’t come when you call ‘em. They ain’t dogs, for Gawd’s sake.. So shut up and shape up and keep crawling…England depends on you…” Muffled chuckles and a guffaw were heard in the dark as Smyth-Gordon’s confreres contemplated that absurdity.

 

The little troop of slack-bellied grey-hairs crawled on.

Half way across the Common, as my father recalled it, the low point to the evenings adventure was reached.…and it was, in his words , “The “Bloody End”.

 

David Gosling, our neighbor three doors down at Kingswood Road, who we children cruelly called “The Hunchback” out of earshot of the grown-ups, because of the shortness of his bowed legs and the pronounced hump on his back, was crawling along next to my father, breathing stentoriously “I certainly… would like to believe, Don,……. that old German meshuggahs….. like us might be ….crawling through the Schwartzwald …. or somewhere similar…and having just such a miserable….”

 

The relative quiet of the night was rent by a string of expletives that brought the sergeant to his knees “What the hell is it NOW?” he barked.

 

“Well, I’ll bloody well tell you what it is now, Sergeant. And glad to do it…I just put my entire hand in a cow flop the size of a tire…and still warm…which means that we’re in a minefield and…we’re surrounded by the enemy.”

“Give…me…strength…” The sergeant sprang to his feet with surprising agility and bellowed “Up on your feet, Men…Get those lights on and LOOK AROUND!…Train your lights on the ground and make your way C A R E F U L L Y in my direction.”

“Oh, I see”, it was a snide remark from the darkness “We’re not worried about the Junker’s and the Heinkel’s getting a bead on us then, eh, Sarge?”

 

“We’ll take our chances” The Sergeant mumbled and added, loudly “ All right ,Lads…On your feet and over to me..watch where you go…we’ll have to review our options…easy now..keep on coming.”

 

They had fetched up half way across Walton Common. Under the single, venerable and enormous oak tree marking the center of the Common, they encountered the architects of their disarray. . Grouped under the protection of the oak tree’s wide spreading branches a dozen well-fed Highland Cattle quietly chewed their cud and contemplated the sudden arrival of the humans in their sanctuary. Twenty four liquid bovine eyeballs, unblinking through wisps of hair, reflected the light from the men’s flashlights.

 

“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say I’d seen a cow?” squeaked Smyth Gordon from the safety of the back row of the gathering. “And will you look at the size of those horns…they’re positively HEROIC “

“What are they doing here, Sarge…I mean, aren’t they supposed to be up in Scotland..in the “Heelans?”

 

Possible explanations of the mystery flew around the gathering. “Black Market beef ?“ and “Illicit operations?”and “ Helping out the war effort?” or “Exhibits for the local school?” or perhaps “Pets?” then again “Escapees from a zoo?” possibly “Rogue herd?” maybe“ Secret breeding operations?” all suggestions from the reasonable to the ridiculous passed from man to man…with general laughter all around.

 

“SHUDDUP…the lot of you” Sergeant Button had had enough ” Get a grip, .” he bellowed. “This is simply old Sir whats-his-name at the Siddons place pasturing a few beef on common land. Big pussy-cats, is all they are, despite the fact that you could hang the laundry on those horns…PUSSY CATS…Not ragin’ toreador-taunting bulls bent on tearing out yer innards…
Get a grip, Men”

 

“Back to the Rat, Sarge?”
“Maybe they’re still serving…who’s for a pint?”
“Home, Sarge?”
“Maneuvers officially over, Sergeant?”

 

“Well, if that’s it for the night then I’m off back to me pork chop… Gawd knows what it’s goin’ to taste like now…I shudder to think…maybe I’ll just wake the Missus and get her to smother it with onions…if we got any onions that is, of course…which I doubt,…”

 

“Will you shut up about your confounded pork chop, Reg…for the love of God run along home and fry the bloody thing up again. We’ll all be grateful”

“What’s the word then, Sarge, eh?…Show’s over for the night?”

 

“Half a mo’..just let me think” the Sergeant spluttered “Give me a minute.” Then shouted “And put those lights out. If you’re standing still, that is… Blimey O’Reilly! What a balls’up this night’s turned out to be.”

 

Several of the men lit cigarettes, cupping hands around the lighter flames. “Watch that flare now, Bill, we don’t want to give away our position to the enemy…do we?” Melvin Jones said, sarcastically. “Well, if a Messerschmitt bomber can see our fag ends from 30,000 feet, we’ve lost the war already.” Artie Crouch answered “Gimme a light here, Mel”

 

They stood quietly chatting together, thankful to be resting and on their feet. More than one man, thoughtfully facing away from the group, relieved his bladder of the residue of intake at “The Rat”.. It was early July, warm and with the scent of gorse and heather in bloom. Over in Leatherhead and Box Hill, and from other more distant army installations ,search-lights looking for incoming enemy planes raked across the sky. “Nice night, tonight” Freddy Banfield murmured. “Quiet….lovely…” Several members of the group voiced accord.

 

“I say…” A thin quavering voice sounded from the darkness thirty yards away. “I…say…there”.

 

Sergeant Derrick Button leapt as if he had been bayoneted. “WHO GOES THERE?” he bellowed.
A flashlight flickered on and off in the black of the night, moving in the direction of the gathered men. “I say…yes…I’m coming over…hold on a mo’…it’s Sir John , you know…jolly good show…so glad you’re all out tonight…piece of luck for me…I must say”.

 

Lowering the vintage Webley Revolver he had whipped out of his trouser pocket, Sergeant Button shone his flashlight on the slight figure of Sir John Siddons, the owner of the cavernous, brick wall surrounded, monstrosity of a house that had been their original destination this night.

 

His face looming grotesque in the light of several flashlights trained upon it, Sir John Siddons tottered forward into full view. “It’s John Siddons here, men…very nice to meet you all…keeping us safe and…so on…jolly good show…sterling fellows…England needs men like you…keep up the good work…and…and…yes…”

 

With a sort of avuncular deference the Sergeant peered closely at the visitor’s face. “What are you up to, Sir John , wanderin’ about out here, eh?” he said. “And put those lights out, men…we’ve no downed paratrooper here.”

 

“Well..no, most certainly no paratrooper here.. I’ve come for my Boys, you see.” Sir John turned to look at the cattle… “And there they all are, … safe and sound, bless them”. He ran a hand over his head, smoothing his helmet of thick silver hair. “ Aren’t they beauties?”

“Oh, right. The cows.”

“Highlanders. That’s what they are” He turned to peer into the darkness, “Dougal?…Step up, man,..make yourself known to these people…where are you?”

 

“I’m right behind ye, Laddie, playin’ wi’ ma Conans…ma wee doggie’s”. Several flashlights snapped on again simultaneously illuminating a tall and sturdy looking man wearing a cloth cap and knock-about woolen coat and trousers who stepped from the shadows. “Evenin’ all of ye” he said, touching the peak of his cap. “Dougal Murdoch, that’s ma name. Steward to Sir John, ma Laddie, here. “ Dougal proffered further explanation. “Up in Ballachulish, I’ Scotland , f’yer information…I look after his wee doggie’s.”

“Wee doggie’s?” Sarge struggled to maintain a hold on the conversation.

 

“His COU’S, Mon’…His COU’S….Wee Doggie’s !” Obvious to all present was the barely veiled contempt with which Dougal Murdoch viewed the Surrey “ Sassenach’s” grouped silently together smoking their cigarettes, all considerably intrigued with the proceedings.

 

Sir John Siddons decided it was time he stated his case. . He raised his voice to a slightly higher tremolo. “Here’s the thing, Gentlemen, I need your help with my bullock’s.. To put’em back in the shed…they broke out, you see, went on a walkabout…probably wanted a nibble of heather…for fun…they’ll eat anything…Very gentle…very VERY gentle, actually..lovely animals they all are…but stubborn as Billy-O, I think I can say that we’re going to have our work cut out… my steward and I, that is, without the help of you stalwart fellows…I hope I’m not speaking out of turn , Sergeant, it IS, Sergeant, is it not?…yes, sorry…should have known, hard to tell without shoulder stripes, pips and so on…couldn’t see the arm-band in the dark, you know …well…um”

 

Sergeant Button faced a dilemma. “This section is on maneuvers, Sir John, and there’s nothing in the schedule planned for getting bullock’s back into sheds…” A quiet voice from the Home Guard ranks was, nevertheless, heard plainly. “Bollock’s to bullock’s !…that’s what I say “

 

Swaying a little, necessitating the strong grip of Dougal Murdoch’s hand on his fore-arm, this frail representative of the minor aristocracy proved that he was made of sterner stuff than his appearance suggested. He turned to his steward and whispered a few words into the Scotsman’s ear. Towering above Sir John, his hand still protectively gripping his master’s arm, Dougal straightened up. “Aye” he said “Oh, aye. That should do it”.

 

” GLENLIVET !…CHIVAS REGAL !” Sir John Siddons uttered loud the magical words as if he had just received an epiphany and understood, in a moment, the Meaning of Life, The two words ran like an electrical charge through the entire assembly. “Two bottles at least I have, in fact, and I may have a dribble or two left of a particularly memorable “Laphroaig” which it will be my pleasure to pleasure you all with once I get my “Boys” back behind bars. There now. What do you say ?”

 

Spirited energy and interest in the proceedings returned to the Tadworth Home Guard. Smokers dropped their cigarettes and ground the butts into the earth at their feet, backs were slapped and shoulders punched in friendly camaderie, jocular give and takes were exchanged. Snatches of sentences were heard…”That’s more like it” “Chivas Regal – Blimey-O’Reilly” “Don’t mind if I do” as example.

 

The Sergeant, wanting to make it obvious that he was still in charge, quietened his men and said loudly. “Now then, Lads, I think I can say that maneuvers are over for tonight or, at least ,that we’ve changed imperatives…Right?” The resoundingly raucous “Yes, Sarge” echoed across the acres. Gone was the order for stealth and silence. Sugar plums of the taste of good liquor , fine and pricey, not often afforded , danced in their heads. The name only was enough, like a dog for a meaty bone, to start the men salivating. It was legend….”Glenlivet” A sip of the water of life-everlasting. They all looked at their leader, waiting for directions.

 

Sergeant Derrick Button was ready. He cleared his throat.. “Well now, Sir John, ‘ere’s the thing, you see. Maneuvers this very night were called an ‘alt to because of a situation directly pertainin’ to those animals. Puddles of their effluence are all around us and we ‘ve ‘ad to call off doing our duty ..and so on. One of my men already came a nasty cropper, you might say, with his hand in it right up to the cuff of ‘is tweeds…If we help take your animals back we’ll be steppin’ in the stuff left, right and center. And I don’t think there a man here who’s Missus isn’t going to give him Hell when he gets his boots home. If you know what I mean.”

 

A deep and sonorous laugh born in a cave in the Grampians issued from the throat of Dougal Murdoch. “Tak ‘em off, ma wee chanties, roll up yer trews . Then if ye get yer wee tootsies in the cac..ye can wash’em in tha steamie, ya puir auld quines” Not translating the Scotsman’s brogue in toto the Englishmen got the drift. It sounded like insult to them. One or two of the younger members straightened up and moved a step in the direction of the Scot.

 

“You’ve got a big mouth on you, Geordie. How about a fat lip for that big mouth of yours?” This from Garven Reilly, the youngest member of the Tadworth Home Guard Section. Exempt from the call-up because of an extremely rare condition – his heart resided in the right side of his chest cavity – he was, nevertheless, always ready for a fight.

“Now then, Garve…None of that…we’re not havin’ any dust-ups tonight”

 

“And a pound packet of best stewing beef for every man that lends a hand” sang out Sir John Siddons, “I can’t say fairer than that”. That was the clincher. Meat rationing had begun earlier that year. They never got enough meat to satisfy.

 

“Sergeant, I say there” Smyth-Gordon shouted “I would like to offer a suggestion..and it’s rather a good one, though I do say it myself….”

 

“Yes, all right, Smyth-Gordon” Sergeant Button said, resignedly.”What is it? Amaze us all with your pearls of wisdom, then…if you must”

 

“Righty-ho. Well, as you may have gathered I’m not very good with cows and consequently wouldn’t be awfully useful hanging onto horns…I just couldn’t do it, frankly Sergeant..but I could be a torch-bearer, so to speak, go along in front and shine a light all around so as to avoid shall I say, pitfalls and puddles and so on….”

“GOT IT, Smyth-Gordon”

“…and find the best route back to Sir John’s home and that way none of us men need to disrobe, don’t you know, and get our shoes nasty if we happen to step in something which, as you say, our Missus wouldn’t be keen on having arrive on her kitchen….”

 

“DO IT “
“Yes? What?”
“Lead the way…”

 

With much palaver and show, urged on and guided by Sir John Siddons, second in line, Smyth-Gordon lit the way on a tortuous route through the gorse and bracken towards Siddon Hall. Behind him , hanging onto the enormous horns of the cattle,careened the line of men, stoically resigned or good-naturedly enjoying the situation. Complaints, however, were soon voiced as it became obvious that Smyth Gordon’s path finding abilities left much to be hoped for. Part way to their destination Sergeant Button called a halt. “HALT” he bellowed

 

“Get out your flash-lights, Men,.. Get out two, if you’ve got ‘em…Shine those bloody things all over the show. At the rate we’re goin’ we’ll never get a drink. ILLUMINATE ! ILLUMINATE!”

“But, Sarge..what about the ARP and the Jerry bombers and….”

 

“ILLUMINATE…and That’s an Order !”

 

In the blaze of light that followed, the troop made speedier progress towards their goal and reached the dank and musty mausoleum of the house that was Siddons Hall well before midnight.
The entire Home Guard section surged around the cattle sheds, pushing the docile animals back
into separate pens, tossing hay into byres, laughing and joking as Dougal Murdoch shouted “Gie
us a haund here, yer Neaps..they’re dinna lairge kye but ahm all pecked oot” . At last, the
animals secure for the night, the men made their way to their reward.

 

Uninviting as the big house looked for the most part, the room to which Sir John led the men
was cheery and comfortable with chintz covered sofas and thick floor rugs. Polished side-tables with large glass ashtrays at the ready stood next to every deep and cozy armchair. Several floor and table lamps cast a warm and welcoming glow. “Welcome to my house, Men” Sir John beamed about the room. “What fun this is” he said “ I don’t get much company…I don’t think I’ve ever had so many people in here ..ever before …all at once, that is”

 

“Pour the hooch, Laddie” shouted Dougal “ We’ve ayn git a beg drouth on us” evidencing to the Englishmen the peculiar relationship that seemed to bond squire and servant. Whatever
that bond might be intrigued them not a whit. This night they were all indulged, made welcome, showered with hospitality, drowned in good liquor, and cosseted with concern for their well-being. Conviviality was absolute. It was “Boys Night Out” with a sweet vengeance.

 

Dougal Murdoch tried to teach some of the men the Highland Fling, the most hilarious performance, according to my father, executed by Smyth-Gordon wearing a pink lampshade
and Sir Johns piano scarf. At one point in the evening Mrs. Drayton, Sir Johns housekeeper, put in a brief appearance. Woken from sleep in her separate apartment by the “carrying’s on’” her arrival was greeted with exaggerated welcome by the men, her ample Junoesque dimensions noted with approval and, despite her initially frosty demeanor, she was invited to sit in many a lap. She accepted a “dram” of liquor to, as she explained “hopefully put me back to sleep over all the noise.”

 

Sir John Siddons, gloriously happy playing the genial host, carved slices from an enormous shoulder of smoked pork, smothered the slices with a gourmet mustard and piled a silver trayhigh with sandwiches. More than once during the general ribaldry of the Englishmen’s conversations came a soto voce speculation about the lavish sumptuosity of Sir John’s table.

“Blimey..Where’s he get all this meat?” and “You wouldn’t know there was a war going on.
A bob’s worth a week? Not on your Nelly, Mate !”

 

Overhearing one of these conversations, Dougal interjected explanation that the meat was grown
on Siddon land in Ballachulish in Scotland and, translated from the brogue, his admonition that
they should all “Eat up…Drink up…Shut up…and accept the largess of the Laird” with
gratitude , was understood. Every member of the Tadworth Home Guard within earshot heartily
agreed.

 

The party was over. Satiated and sozzled, beaming beatifically with bonhomie, patting the
previously promised pound of stewing beef in their pocket, each member of the Tadworth Home Guard ended the evening with elaborate thanks to their generous host who even ferried one or two men with cars back to their vehicles still parked outside “The Rat” .

 

My father’s comment on the evening was “What a Bun Fight !”.

* * * * *

 

England had declared war on Germany on September 3rd of the previous year. Rationing of
gasoline ,followed shortly by meats, eggs, fats, sugar, dairy products, cereals, and dried or canned fruits, had been a fact of life of meager consumption to all those living in the south of England. Everything was scarce and, what there was, had to be queued for.

 

The pound package of Highland Cattle beef which my father delivered into my mothers
hands made a welcomed and substantial meat and vegetable stew for our family of six. And
it certainly was delicious..

 

Five days later, on July 10th, the Battle of Britain began. It was to last about three and a half months fought solely in the skies over southern England. Party Times were over for a while.

 

Judith G. Kane ….September 29th 2012.