I Sank The Bismarck (2 page)

Looking back over eighty or more years to when I was a
young child, younger even than my grandson when we
crashed on the Isle of Bute, I cannot help but think that I grew
up in another world entirely, one that has now completely
vanished. It was slower, much quieter, it seemed infinitely
safer, and of course the sun was always shining. This seems
unlikely, I know, but there you are!

I spent my
childhood in a part of the country known as the
Scottish Borders – that bit of Scotland to the south of
Edinburgh, close to Northumberland, along the northern
border of England. My parents moved from town to town as
my father's business dictated, with one brief stay among the
'Sassenachs' in County Durham.

Although I seemed to get into all sorts of scrapes, I enjoyed
life; I remember the fun and excitement of various incidents
rather than the tears that followed. At all events, two of the
most important influences in my life were triggered by things
that I first saw and experienced as a child growing up in
southern Scotland.

I was born in a small village called Swinton, but my parents
moved fairly soon, when I was still just a baby, to
Earlston,
where my father opened the town's first garage. It was here
that I spent the extremely happy, by and large carefree, first
years of my life.

My father,
Peter, had served in the
First World War, joining
up in 1914 to qualify as an air engineer for the
Royal Naval
Air Service and then serving in No. 2 Wing RNAS under
Commander Charles Sampson, who in 1912 had become the
first man to fly a plane off a ship. My father saw part of
the war in Belgium, then was posted to the seaplane carrier
Ark Royal,
which sailed for
Gallipoli, the site of the bloody
attempt to land forces in the Dardanelles. I gather that my
father not only served on
Ark Royal,
but was part of a detachment
that went ashore to build an airfield at Mudros on the
island of Lemnos. He left the service in 1917 and married my
mother
Mary a year later. It might seem obvious that, with
my father's background, I would also join the navy, but this
was not the case. My father, like most men at the time, rarely
if ever talked about his wartime experiences, and I found out
only a little about them much later in my life. No, I was left
to make my own way, and my own mistakes.

Earlston, like many towns in the Borders, was built round
a large open square. Here each year they held the 'Hirings', to
which farmworkers from the surrounding countryside would
come hoping to find new employment for the next twelve
months. It was a giant annual labour exchange and needless
to say it could be a desperate time for people. There was little
in the way of a welfare state for those who were too old or
too ill to work. Rural areas saw a great deal of poverty in
those times.

The square in Earlston was also the site of a yearly summer
fair, and then it would be filled with all sorts of sideshows and
entertainers, fire-eaters, jugglers and boxing booths.
The arrival of the fair always caused great excitement.
Steam-driven traction engines would haul wagons into the
square, then would be set up to drive roundabouts and steam
organs.

Entertainment was by and large a communal affair. One
local custom I loved to watch was a wedding. The groom
would have purchased a rugby ball from the local saddler, and
after the ceremony the newly married couple would go to the
saddler's and the groom would kick the ball as hard and as
high as he could into the town. This was a signal for all the
men to rush after it and try to grab it, with the idea that one
of them would secure it and hang on to it. There was no prize
for this – gaining the ball was an end in itself. The struggle for
possession would often go on until dark; it was taken very
seriously. Naturally the whole town enjoyed it, so a wedding
was a major event.

When I was about four years old my parents gave me a pet,
a terrier that I named Wiggy. I wandered far and wide with
Wiggy, securing him with a length of rope for a lead. Roaming
away from home must have given my parents several anxious
moments, but looking back I can only marvel at the freedom
I had and the adventurous habits I developed. My favourite
walk was to go to see the grounds of a large house called
Cowdenknowes. I was always welcome at the gardener's
cottage on the estate, where there was always something to
eat – a piece of cake fresh from the oven or an apple out of
the orchard.

I also used to wander off to the railway station to watch the
steam trains come and go. The porter there was also called
Moffat, although we had no family connection of which I was
aware. After I had been making regular visits for a while, the
train drivers and firemen on the local route all got to know
me. Naturally, as a young boy I found the steam engines
absolutely enthralling, belching steam and smoke, shrieking
and clanking as they pulled to a halt and then heaving away
gathering speed. It didn't take long before the crews were willing
to let me on the footplate, and then it became a regular
occurrence for me to travel on the engine to St Boswells, a
town about 4 miles away down the line. It was enormously
exciting, with the heat from the firebox, the gleaming brass
levers and dials, the smell of hot oil and smoke, and me in the
company of the overalled men in charge of this monster.
When we got to St Boswells I would hop off and the driver
would ensure that I was safely ensconced on another engine
making the return journey. When I got back my parents
would chastise me for running off without a by your leave,
but what little boy would be able to resist such an amazing
opportunity? I certainly couldn't.

I became extremely adventurous, and absolutely fearless,
feeling that I could go anywhere I chose without coming to
any harm. One day I got it into my head to visit a good friend
of my grandfather, a man called
Mr Deans who was the landlord
of a pub, the Black Bull, in the town of Lauder, which
was about 6 miles north of Earlston. I hopped on to a local
bus and hid beneath a seat, but someone must have seen me
and told my parents. My father clearly thought this was the
last straw. He telephoned the local constable in Lauder and
this fine fellow was waiting for me when the bus pulled in. I
can still see him, with his blue cape, his helmet and his fierce
waxed moustache, like a typical sergeant major. Towering
over me, he grabbed me by the ear and none too gently
marched me off to the police station, up the iron steps to the
front door. There I was led to the cells and put in the first
one on the left. They were in the centre of the village, and they
are still there now, to remind me whenever I pass by.
Naturally I was not very happy and I am sure that my distress
took the edge off my father's anger when he arrived to take
me home. Mr Deans at the Black Bull was incensed at the
constable's treatment of me and before he was calmed down
by my father he threatened to take his shotgun to the man.
This was a very unpleasant experience all round, but I cannot
say that it made me curb my wanderlust.

Even wandering around the town offered plenty of opportunity
for mischief. There was almost no motor traffic, so I
could walk about with Wiggy without any fear of being run
over, but there were other hazards. My father's garage was
located next to the church, and then on the other side of that
was the local baker's, and then the public house next to that.
For a young boy the baker's was an enormously attractive
place, with its iced buns and doughnuts in the window. The
baker was always very friendly towards me and I was allowed
to go down to the cellar where the dough was being mixed in
large tubs, then cut up into portions to be baked into rolls and
loaves. Even then I felt that there was something extremely
satisfying and wholesome about the smell of flour and yeast
and new-baked bread.

In those days the roads around Earlston were covered by
layers of stone chippings spread over hot tar and the council
roadworkers came every few years to renew the surface. Piles
of grit were brought by lorry and left by the side of the road,
along with barrels of tar ready to be used. I can't imagine how
I did it, but I managed to get into one of those barrels and
started shouting for help. My father rescued me and dragged
me into the garage, where he cleaned me off with paraffin.
Ever since, the smell of paraffin or tar has brought back that
experience, taking me back to my earliest days. So too does
the smell of whisky. One day I was walking past the public
house, and I must have been without my constant companion
Wiggy because the landlord's terrier bounded out and bit
me on the upper arm. I was very upset, and so of course
was the landlord. He rushed me into the pub, sat me on
the bar and cleaned the wound with neat whisky.
Another alarming experience for a young lad – but I have
to say that it has never stopped me from enjoying a dram.

My father's business prospered in Earlston. The garage was
usually busy, as cars and buses were starting to replace horsedrawn
vehicles. I enjoyed loitering in the area, watching the
workmen, and I became fascinated by engines and anything
mechanical, although things were still fairly primitive by
modern standards. My father bought a chassis from Albion,
the lorry manufacturer in Glasgow, and had the local joiner
build what was known as a charabanc body on it. It was the
first bus to operate in Earlston and was often hired to take
local clubs and church groups on excursions or picnics. The
wheels still had wooden spokes and wheel rims, like the old
wooden horse-drawn carts. On very hot days in summer the
wood would dry out and shrink, so the driver always had to
make sure that a bucket of water was available to keep the
wood wet to prevent the wheels from collapsing.

My father also started to sell cars, and in about 1925 he
sold the local doctor, Dr Young, a new Model T Ford. This led
to my first ever crash. These cars had been in production for
some years, but the prices had started to fall, so doctors and
other professional people had now started to buy them. Ford
kept on improving them and the car bought by Dr Young had
been fitted with what was then a very modern innovation, an
electric starter, as an alternative to cranking the engine over
by hand with a starting handle. This electric starter was
operated by a large button mounted on the floor beside the
driver. Shortly after the car had been proudly handed over by
my father, the doctor used it to visit a patient who lived above
the big grocer's shop that fronted on to the main square. The
pristine Ford, black of course, was left next to the shop.
Motor cars were still a novelty in those days and I was particularly
intrigued by this concept of the electric starter. Seeing
the car parked, I took the opportunity to clamber up into it. I
was five years old and fascinated by the shiny new button
sticking out of the floor. I pressed firmly on it with both my
hands, as hard as I could. To my utter surprise, the car leapt
forward over the cobbles and smashed into the plate-glass
window of the grocer's shop. There was utter chaos. The
assistants were screaming inside the shop, people all round
the square rushed out to see what had caused the sound of
shattering glass; all this accompanied by my cries of shock,
and my tears at the realization of the trouble I was in. It didn't
take long before first the doctor and then my father added to
the tumult. I was correct about the trouble I was in, for my
father treated me very sternly. I was forbidden all sorts of
treats and was told I must stay indoors, but I think it is hard
for people to remain angry at small children for long. Soon I
found myself wandering my favourite haunts again and
running over the fields with Wiggy.

When I was around six or seven we moved to
Low Fell, a
coal-mining district of County Durham close to Gateshead,
where we lived in a flat above my father's car showroom. It
was not a time that I enjoyed very much. I was growing up
and beginning to be affected by events in the wider world. We
had moved from
Earlston, comparatively quite a rural town,
to an area dominated by coal mining. We lived at first in a
very poor part of town and I was singled out in the local
school as being Scottish and slightly more well-to-do than
most of the children. Also, 1926 saw the
General Strike, when
the transport workers and dockers came out on strike in
support of the coalminers, who were refusing to take a pay
cut. The streets were full off striking miners, with police and
the army guarding the entrances to the pits and escorting food
lorries driven by volunteers. Families had no money, there was
an air of desperation and violence, and I think my father's
business was badly affected by the strike.

The only enjoyable memory I have of our time in County
Durham was when my mother took me to the Empire Theatre to
see the famous singer
Al Jolson, who performed made up as a
black minstrel. It would not be accepted now, but he was truly an
amazing performer, holding the audience spellbound when he
sang his most famous song, 'Sonny Boy'. It was a real tear-jerker.

We stayed in England for a couple of years, with things
slowly improving, then my father decided to move once more
and we headed back across the border to Scotland, to the
lovely town of
Kelso, a few miles east of Earlston.

Kelso is built round a big cobbled square, apparently the
largest in Scotland, with four main roads leading into it; many
people say that it is similar to a French provincial town. It is
where the Tweed and Teviot rivers meet and, as both are good
salmon rivers, Kelso is well known for its game fishing. It has
a fine National Hunt racecourse and a high
school, which, at
that time, had an excellent reputation for rugby. At the end of
Roxburgh Street a horseshoe was embedded in the pavement,
and the local legend says that it was thrown by Bonnie Prince
Charlie's horse back in 1745. There was also a big ring set in
the cobbles in the middle of the square where bulls were tied
up on market days.