Robin and The Rubicelle Fusiliers
By
William Forde
First published by William Forde (1st January 2000)
Mirfield, West Yorkshire
Republished September 30th, 2011
Copyright 2000 William Forde
Cover Illustration by Robert Nixon
Published by William Forde at Smashwords
Copyright September 30th, 2011 William Forde
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Author's Foreword
When countries wage war upon each other, there are no winners. The price of war is paid for with the blood of innocent people, the loss of military and civilian lives, the deaths of men, women and children!
There is no greater tyranny than that of a nation making a smaller nation bend and submit to its will, simply because it is more powerful and is able to do so.
When words of worldly wisdom are wrapped within their national flags, all manner of human wrong is capable of being done and justified in the name of 'good cause'. Territorial theft enters the history books as ‘colonial expansion’, apartheid is dressed up in the clothes of ‘natural segregation’ and genocide is given the sanitised label of ‘ethnic cleansing.’
The spread of war and its propaganda allows the value of life in one part of the world to become more or less important than the lives of men, women and children elsewhere.
The blood of innocent people should not be shed to buy the wealth of nations! People's lives should not be sacrificed to purchase the political or religious advancement of one race over that of another! War should not be waged to extend the geographical land-map of any country!
When the day comes that the life of one person, anywhere in the world, matters more than the power, wealth, prestige, ideology and political complexion of all nations; only then will there be no more war!
This book is set in the period of the Second World War. It is written from a traditional English and British perspective. Its purpose is not to glorify war, but to offer the young reader an opportunity to feel what it was like for a British man, woman and child to live through such times in England.
The story's main characters are used to depict typical English attitudes of the time. Whereas 11-year-old Robin Rubin's view of the war will more closely reflect the view of the New Millennium child, the view expressed by his English war-veteran grandfather is more typical of an aged, British, colonial patriot. The more traditional, nationalistic view of the Second World War English soldier and civilian are represented in the expressions by Robin's parents, other adult story-characters and the author. The term 'British' did not come into common usage until the 1950s, and during the Second World War period, people born in England generally referred to their race as being 'English'.
The Second World War was a global military conflict. In terms of lives lost and material destruction, it was the most devastating war in human history. The causes of the Second World War matter less than the number of lives lost as a result of it!
The Allied military and civilian losses numbered 44 million while those of the Axis totalled 11 million. The U.S.S.R. bore the heaviest human cost of the war, losing 20 million military and civilian lives.
The U.S.A. had no significant civilian losses. They sustained 292,131 battle deaths and 115,187 deaths from other causes.
Despite Britain being at the forefront of the war from the beginning of it, the presence of the English Channel separating Great Britain from the European battleground undoubtedly minimised the loss of civilian lives, which Great Britain would otherwise have suffered.
Within this horrific loss of lives, it is estimated that 6 million Jews were killed in the Holocaust.
This book is written in memory of all those men, women and children who paid the price of the Second World War with their lives. It is one of eight children's story books, which the author wrote in celebration of the New Millennium and was first published on January 1st, 2000.
I extend my heartfelt appreciation to Denby Dale artist, Robert Nixon, whose authentic period painting was commissioned specifically for the cover illustration, and to artist, Rex Ripley of Garforth, Leeds, whose inner illustrations sympathetically complement the text of the war poem, 'Arthur and Guinevere', which can be found at the back of the book.
William Forde, September 30th, 2011.
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Chapter One
‘Night of the Bombs’
"Arise, Sir Robin" King Arthur announced as he knighted the latest recruit to his 'Round Table'. "Come, good knight!" the king invited warmly. "Come; sit here, between your king and Sir Lancelot. I want to hear more of your gallant adventures and chivalrous deeds."
Sir Robin took his seat as commanded by his monarch. Being placed in a position of honour between King Arthur and his Champion, gave Sir Robin a sense of pride, which no purse could ever buy nor victory yield.
As the king patted his new knight on the back, Sir Lancelot stood and proposed a toast to the hero of the hour. "I offer you, Sir Robin, a knight of courage and gallantry," Sir Lancelot said. "May he long live in service to his King and Country. To Sir Robin!"
‘The Knights of The Round Table’ rose as one, and raising their goblets of wine, they toasted the newest member to their fold, "To Sir Robin!"
The king was overjoyed with his latest recruit and continued to praise and pat Sir Robin on the back.
Suddenly, Robin was woken abruptly from his sleep. His dream had been brought to a hurried end. The towering Kingdom of Camelot had vanished beneath the waters of sweet dreams and 11-year-old Robin Rubins found himself back inside his bed at number 11, Old Kent Road, London.
The table of fine foods and goblets of red wine had been cleared away, and in its place remained a partly drunk mug of Ovaltine and half a homemade biscuit. King Arthur, Sir Lancelot and all the other ‘Knights of The Round Table’ had taken their leave: the squires, the servants, the castle and the dream of Camelot had disappeared. The only remaining person in attendance was Robin's mother, standing in the shadow of his bedroom. Her face was filled with the visible expectation of some great disaster as she tried to stir him back to full alertness.
Robin's mother shook him again, urging him as she did so, to get up quickly and follow her. There was a strong sense of urgency in her shake, a tone of unmistakeable seriousness in her voice and the suggestion of fearful panic in her words. "Come, Robin!" his mother urged. "Come quickly, Son, before it's too late! Never mind getting dressed. Just grab a blanket to wrap around you. Quickly, put some shoes on and come now!"
Robin struggled to open his eyes fully while his senses slowly returned to the awareness of the place and time. He heard the air-raid siren and exclaimed in annoyance, "Cor blimey! Not again! This is the second time this week! I'll never become the ‘King's Champion’ if old Adolf keeps waking me up!" Robin quickly gathered a blanket, socks and a pair of shoes as the deadly shrill of the siren pierced the peace of the night with its stark warning of imminent danger and impending doom.
"Come on, Son!" Robin's mother repeatedly called impatiently. "What's keeping you? Get a move on!"
Robin scrambled towards the bedroom door in pursuit of his mother, who was now waiting anxiously for him at the bottom of the stairs. "Robin!" his mother shouted angrily. "What's keeping you? We must get to safety now!"
"I’m coming, Mum!" Robin replied as he reached the top of the stairs, ready to descend. He quickly ran down six steps before stopping dead in his tracks. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. He turned and ran back up the stairs into his bedroom to retrieve two forgotten items; a framed photograph of his father and a scrapbook on British birds. These were Robin's two most-treasured possessions.
Seeing her Son turn around and run back upstairs again angered Robin's mother, who yelled, "Are you trying to get us both killed, you daft kipper? Get yourself down here and in that shelter now before…" Robin re-emerged at the top of the steps again. "Come on!" his mother yelled once more as he began to descend the flight of stairs.
As Robin started his descent of the stairs for the second time, his mother ran along the hall passage and into the kitchen towards the back door. She unlocked the door and held it wide open in preparation for their escape. Although the house was in darkness, both mother and Son were quickly becoming accustomed to their nightly run-for-cover. Robin's mother waited anxiously by the back door that she’d opened. Before she had the opportunity to call her son again, Robin had reached the bottom of the stairs and had started his run towards the kitchen.
"Coming, Mum," he panted breathlessly as he appeared in view. "I’m coming now!"
Grabbing one of Robin's hands tightly, his mother led him out into the back garden towards the shelter. Upon reaching the shelter she lifted the hatch; revealing a small ladder which led towards their makeshift dugout in the ground.
As his mother descended the small flight of steps, Robin swiftly looked across the horizon of the city and glanced towards the war-torn sky. He could hear the detonation of bombs in the distance and he could see the reflection of city fires casting their glow for miles around. He could smell the heavy whiff of smoke, which lingered in the night air. The smell of the smoke aggravated his nostrils and sent a sickening feeling to the pit of his stomach. It was a distinct smell of atmospheric gloom, filled with the fumes of devastation, destruction and death!
Then, Robin heard the faint sounds of engines in the sky above; engines belonging to invisible German planes flying overhead towards the heart of the capital. He knew them to be German planes loaded with bombs, waiting to be dropped on London. As each batch of bombs were dropped in the darkness of the night and reached their earthbound targets, explosion after explosion was swiftly followed by an upsurge of flames, then, more explosions and more flames. Bursts of gunfire would then be heard, as anti-aircraft guns fired their bullets towards the squadron of invading planes; tracing out a path of broken flash-lines in the sky as the bullets travelled upwards.
Had Robin been six or seven years younger, he might have thought that the Earth was being invaded by war-faring aliens from a planet in outer space, as the heavens exploded into star-war skies. Robin knew that the bombs would wreck the lives of thousands of innocent people. He knew that houses, shops, hospitals, schools, factories and churches would be crushed and blasted by the bombs. He knew that buildings, which yesterday stood up proud, would, by tomorrow's dawn, be flattened and reduced to rubble.
But behind this realisation lay a deeper knowledge of the devastation that the bombing would cause. Robin knew the real horror of the bombs. He knew that behind the statistics of wounded and dead, and behind the physical destruction of buildings and property, which the bombs would leave in their wake, the birth of a deeper tragedy lurked; a personal and human tragedy, which couldn't be cleared up and brushed aside as easily!
Robin knew that the real horror of the bombs was the unbearable heartbreak, the pain, the loss and the feelings of guilt, which would be thrust upon the survivors who were left to pick up the scattered pieces of their fragmented lives! He knew that the bombs would kill innocent men, women and children, while leaving many more badly wounded to resume their lives with amputated limbs and the loss of sight, smell, sound, speech and movement.
Robin knew that some of the survivors would be cut off from their arms and legs; others from their family, friends and life-long neighbours. He knew that many would be left physically mutilated and others psychologically disturbed. He also knew that whatever the degree of pain endured, that almost all of the bombed population would be left emotionally distraught. Physical pain would be numbed by the onset of mental anguish, and families would be left fragmented forevermore as they buried the remains of their dead: their dead fathers, mothers, Sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins!
These people were the real casualties of war which historians and statisticians write off ever so quickly with a stroke of their pen. These relationships, bonded by blood and cemented with love, would have their arteries slashed by the bombs. Their hearts would be ripped out and the cherished memories of three and four generations would remain to haunt them in the ruins of their shattered family units.
As Robin listened to the planes above, he wished with all his heart that he possessed the power to prevent the bomber pilots pressing that lever which discharged the bombs onto the population of innocent people below. If only he possessed the means to reach inside the mind of every bomber pilot in the world, he would show them, in graphic detail, the horrific consequences of the bombs they dropped. If only he possessed such power, he would willingly use it to invade and bombard their senses. He would make them experience the pain, which their bombs brought into people's lives.
He would compel their eyes to look upon the grief-stricken and tormented face of a heartbroken mother as she cradled the lifeless body of her only child in the wreckage of her bombed home! He would oblige their ears to hear the pitiful cry of anguish and fear coming out of the mouth of a demented child as it tries in vain to search for any sign of life in its mother's corpse! He would take their hands and made them touch the horrific burns and flesh wounds of the walking dead! He would make them taste the blood of every innocent child killed by the bombs! He would fill their nostrils with the unmistakeable, unforgettable stench of death! Then, after he'd done all this, he would force the bombers to face the survivors whose lives they'd devastated and oblige them to explain, 'Why?' Alas, Robin possessed no such power, but if he had, he would most certainly have used it to stop the war.
While Robin had his own views about the horrors of war, he realised that were he to publicly express them, he might be considered to be 'unpatriotic' by some. Besides, he was a child living in a country at war, and as such, he couldn't escape the influence of the war-propaganda machine. If ever he forgot why England was at war, he could always rely upon his parents, neighbours and teachers, along with comics, newspapers, posters, bill boards and the wireless to remind him. They told him what they thought he and all ‘patriots’ needed to know.
Robin had been told that the nightly attacks by the German bombers were designed to instil fear into the hearts of the British people. Their purpose was to break our spirit, to reduce our morale and to shatter the peace and democratic institutions of a brave and defiant nation.
This little island known as England, with its stiff upper lip, its quaint old-fashioned ways and its down-to-earth common sense values of right and wrong now stood out alone against the might of the Germanic tyrant. Great Britain and France had entered the war against Germany as the champions of world freedom. Having watched the German army march into Austria, and then, Czechoslovakia, we refused to stand idly by and watch them invade Poland. We did not dash into war recklessly. For almost one year before our declaration of war, we tried to resolve the situation by peaceful means. We were reluctant to walk onto the European battlefield; and only did so when our peaceful efforts failed.
For many months, Prime Minister Chamberlain tried to find a peaceful solution to the problem as he talked and talked with the German leader, Adolf Hitler. However, the more concessions that the British peacemaker made, the more the German dictator demanded.
When it became apparent that Germany was pushing for territorial expansion instead of European peace, Adolf Hitler was told by Britain and France that if his army invaded Poland, we would consider such an invasion as an act of war. On the 1st September, 1939, the German army marched into Poland. On the 3rd September, 1939, after failing to comply with our ultimatum to withdraw from Poland, Britain and France declared war on Germany.
Being geographically next door to Germany, the French were quickly overcome by the might of the German aggressor and their country was soon occupied by the enemy; leaving Britain alone to fight the tyrant. British soldiers fighting in France were pushed back to the beaches of Dunkirk and were left stranded on the sand; sandwiched between German artillery guns and the English Channel.
When the people back in England heard about the plight of our soldiers trapped between the German army and the sea, they set off across the English Channel to rescue them. Any vessel, which would float, was used in this heroic operation; destroyers, fishing trawlers and an armada of small boats. In the magnificent and heroic sealift, which followed, we brought our wounded and stranded soldiers back home. 338,226 soldiers were rescued from the beaches of Dunkirk in that historic operation.
Next, the Germans tried to starve us into surrender as they used their submarines in the Atlantic Sea to cut off our overseas lifeline of food, trade and other essential provision. Adolf Hitler wanted to invade England and the British mainland, but that involved crossing the English Channel. Hitler did not wish to risk such an invasion until he could knock out the British Air Force.
In August, 1940, the Germans launched daylight air-raids against ports and airfields in Britain. By September, 1940, they sent their fighter planes to attack our inland cities. Hitler knew that his fighter planes were superior to ours and he wanted to draw our planes into the sky, where he hoped his planes would destroy them. The 'Battle of Britain' had commenced, and day after day, British and German fighter planes fought daily duels to the death in the English skies. Due to a new British device called radar; which warned us when German planes were approaching the British air space, along with the bravery and skill of our aircraft fighter pilots and gunners, the battle of British skies was eventually won by British fighter planes. Prime Minister, Winston Churchill later described the gallant deeds of our pilots and their crew in the following words that have now found their rightful place in every British person’s heart: “ Never, has so much been owed by so many to so few!”
When German air losses became too high, the German Luftwaffe changed tactics. In September, 1940, they switched from daylight attacks and dog fights in the sky to night-time bombing raids. Of all our cities, which the Germans bombed, the City of London suffered the most attacks.
By September, 1940, Britain stood alone, like a sling-throwing David facing the ferocious onslaught of a German Goliath. We refused to give way to the bully's threats. We dug in, stood shoulder-to-shoulder and refused to give up our ground. We refused to abandon our values and our treaty undertaking with the Poles. We prepared to defend our freedom, our democracy, our empire and our British way of life! We became prepared to endure any hardship and suffer any loss, because we knew that, as a nation, what we believed in was worth fighting and dying for.
At the height of the early battle, a new Prime Minister called Winston Churchill emerged as leader of our nation. Winston Churchill came to power during the late years of his life, but as far as Britain was concerned, he took over the leadership of his country at a time when a man like him was most needed. Churchill had served as a young soldier out in South Africa and had distinguished himself in battle. It was therefore fitting that a soldier of war should emerge to lead our country during a time of war.
As a young scholar, Winston Churchill had been a rebel and he hated being sent to boarding school. He became a soldier, and then, an M.P. after he'd left the army. He was a large-sized man who was rarely seen in public without a large-sized cigar in his hand.
Winston Churchill was a man of courage and great vision, whose command of the spoken word made him a great orator. He was a man whose love of country and the English language gave him the power to stir, bond and unite his people. When he spoke to us on the wireless, his words inspired the nation. He had the vision to voice the words the British people wanted and needed to hear. His words echoed the feelings that the British people had in their hearts, and once the battle had commenced in earnest and was going badly for us, he willed us on to victory.
On the 4th June, 1940, while speaking in Parliament, Winston Churchill summed up the mood of the British people when he told the country that we would never surrender:
"We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."
"Come, Robin! Come quickly and get the hatch down!" Robin's mother urged as her feet touched the bottom of the shelter floor. Robin entered the shelter and closed the hatch behind him. He heard another bomb explode and although he couldn't see it, he could easily imagine the buildings and homes it would flatten to the ground and the people panicking and scurrying for any form of shelter in the open streets.
Robin and his mother stood in the darkness of the shelter. "Shine that torch over here, Son, "his mother asked, "while I light the oil lamp." Robin did as he was told. As he shone the torch in the direction of his mother, he could see that she was panting breathlessly. She pressed her hand to her stomach.
"Are you alright, Mum?" Robin asked.
"Yes, Son! I'll be alright in a minute when I get my breath back. I'm getting too old and too weighty for all this running to and fro!"
Robin shivered as he pulled the blanket tightly around his shoulders. He was still in his pyjamas. He wondered how long they'd have to stay in the shelter tonight before the 'all clear' siren sounded. The bombing stopped for about five minutes before it suddenly started again.
"Must be a straggler!" Robin's mother remarked as she pulled her Son close to her bosom and held on tight. Robin knew all about ‘stragglers.’ The stragglers were enemy planes, which got separated from the main squadron attack-force as they crossed the Channel. Stragglers usually arrived late on the scene as the rest of their squadron were on their way back home. In many ways, stragglers could be more dangerous, especially for those areas outside the heart of the city. Having arrived later than the rest of their squadron, they were often short on fuel. So to compensate, they'd ditch their bombs as soon as possible; invariably farther out of the city.
Three bombs went off in rapid succession; the third one being very close by. The noise of the explosion almost shattered the eardrums. Robin could hear the pounding of his mother's rapid heartbeat and knew that it echoed the swiftness of his own. "Phew! That was close, Mum!" Robin remarked anxiously. He was terrified, but did his best to conceal his level of fear from his mother.
"Cover your ears up, Son!" his mother told him.
Robin and his mother knew that bombs were dropped in batches of six, with approximately a few seconds interval between one explosion and the next. The fourth explosion really frightened Robin and his mother and it sent shock waves beneath the ground like an earthquake tremor. The noise above ground was deafening, indicating that buildings nearby had suffered a direct hit. A loud, clattering sound was heard as the corrugated-sheet covering above ground rattled and reverberated. "It's probably shattered glass," Robin's mother remarked as she provided her Son with an answer to his unvoiced question and thoughts.
"Phew!" Robin remarked again. 'Phew' was one of Robin's favourite words. It was something which all of the comic-sketch characters were always saying after they'd experienced a close shave. 'Phew' seemed to sum up perfectly, a wide range of emotional experiences which all 11-year old children had. It could be used to describe shock, surprise, elation, joy, fear and relief. "Phew!" Robin said again. "That one was too close for comfort! It couldn't have been more than a street away!" What Robin really thought and had wanted to say, had it not been for fear of alarming his mother was, "I hope that bomb didn't hit the house, Mum!"
Although Robin was only 11 years old, he tried to protect his mother in his own way. With his dad away at the war, Robin felt himself to be the 'man of the house'. In fact, the very last words his father had spoken to him before returning to fight overseas had said as much. "Robin," his father had said, "now, you be good while I'm away and look after your mother. You're the man of the house now and I'm depending on you to do what's required."
Robin shivered with cold again as he waited anxiously for the next two explosions. It seemed strange that he should feel so cold below ground, when up above, most of London was in flames. As he waited, huddled up to his mother for the next explosion, Robin prayed that the next bomb would land farther away from them than the last one had, instead of closer. Then, having silently wished for the next bomb to land elsewhere, Robin's sense of relief was instantly soured by feeling of guilt when it did. Robin's guilt was the type of emotion felt by many survivors after an air raid. It stemmed from the knowledge that they had lived through the nightmare, while others, elsewhere, had been killed.
Robin was naturally pleased that he and his mother hadn't been killed in the fifth bomb explosion, but he didn't want to think about the prospect that another boy and his mother had been blasted to bits instead! Having counted five bomb explosions in rapid succession, the sixth explosion didn't follow as anticipated. Robin knew that not all bombs dropped exploded on impact. London was filled with unexploded bombs. Often, the adults could be heard talking about ‘hidden bombs’; bombs ready to explode as soon as they were unwittingly moved or disturbed, weeks, months or even years later.
After five minutes of silence, Robin heard the sound of a fire engine nearby. He knew that all over London, the sound of the fireman's bell would be heard as the angels of the night risked life and limb to quench the flames of death and destruction. The firemen worked through the air raid; for that was when they were needed most of all. While the rest of the civilian population ran for shelter, the fire engines would have to run the gauntlet of falling bombs, collapsing buildings, gas explosions, fractured water-mains and scattered debris as they weaved their passage around bomb craters, dead bodies and other road obstacles to reach the scenes of blazing infernos.
More often than not, Robin knew that when the fire engines arrived, they'd find street-loads of houses flattened to the ground with their wounded and dead occupants buried beneath tons of rubble. Fire fighters would dig for hours, only stopping when they dropped with exhaustion. Then, when all seemed lost, someone would hear a faint sound of life stir beneath the rubble. Again, they'd go into rescue mode as they pushed their exhausted bodies into a second stage of life. They'd scratch away with their bare hands until the lucky survivor was pulled out of the jaws of suffocation.
As the angels of the night fought to save lives and rescue trapped people or put out flames, other fires would continue to break out around them; followed by the deadly combination of gas explosions and flooded drains. The saving of one life would give these fearless fighters of fires fresh heart and renewed energy; enabling them to continue working through the threshold barrier of physical exhaustion and futile despair.
Whereas the success of one rescued person might give the fire fighters added strength to carry on, however, the discovery of a badly-mutilated child-corpse from beneath the rubble would drain them instantly of hope and energy. It is the hardest thing of all, to be obliged to cradle the reclaimed corpse of someone else's child during the course of one's job, while fearing for the safety of one's own children elsewhere. No amount of repeated experience can ever prepare one for the sight of an old, married couple lying dead, side-by-side with fingers entwined in eternal love, having been killed by the bombs simply because they lacked the speed and agility of youth to reach the shelter in time!
Such were the sights that the fire fighters saw night after night. Such were the emotions they had to struggle with and endure. Such scenes of human carnage, which rocked their senses and threatened their very sanity would stay with them over the years ahead. Often the war memories would continue to inflict pain half a century after the event had occurred. Many found the hurtful images so shocking that they simply couldn’t bring themselves to talk about their experiences and therefore were never fully able to share the emotional burden.
As Robin and his mother occupied the safety of their garden shelter, both knew that all this was currently happening above ground, somewhere in the streets of London. This was London in the Blitz! This was war! This was England in the month of September, 1940!
Robin had often heard adults around him talk about 'when we win the war', but he couldn't imagine how 'winning' was possible. Robin feared that to achieve a victory, Britain would have to become a bigger butcher of lives than the enemy. Besides, the way that the war was going, it seemed to Robin that it was Germany who was doing all the bombing while the British were doing all the ducking and diving and running for cover.
Whenever Robin had posed this question to the adults around him, all he received in reply was some mild rebuke telling him not to be ‘defeatist.’ In fact, he felt certain that were he to search high and low in every corner of the land; he wouldn't be able to find one adult who was prepared to even contemplate the possibility of a British defeat! When he asked his teacher if we'd win the war, his teacher looked at him in astonishment before replying, "Of course, boy! Of course we'll win the war! Why shouldn't we win? We've never lost a war yet and we're not about to start a new trend by losing one now! We gave the German Kaiser 'what for' in the 1914-1918 war and we'll give old Hitler a taste of the same medicine this time also! Of course we'll win the war, boy; we're British! If the Romans couldn't conquer us, what chance does old Adolf have?”
Even Robin's mother, who hated war, couldn't believe that Britain wouldn't emerge from the conflict victorious. She'd told Robin in August, 1940, after Hitler had launched his air raids, that attacking England was the biggest mistake he'd ever made. "Old Adolf's mistake," Robin's mother had told him, "is to misjudge the character of the English, the bravery of the British and the sheer stubbornness of the little man and woman who live on this little island across the sea! You mark my words, Robin," she had said, "Hitler's in for a big shock when our soldiers land on his doorstep! It won't be any bottle of milk they'll be delivering. They'll soon give him 'what for'. You mark my words Son!"
"But how can you be so sure, Mum, that he won't conquer us?" Robin had asked. "From what I've heard, their planes are faster than ours. They've got a larger army of soldiers, more guns than us, more tanks and more artillery! They've even got underwater battleships called submarines which can sneak up on our destroyers without being seen and torpedo us to smithereens before we know what has hit us!"
Robin's knowledgeable response had thrown his mother off-guard and even annoyed her. A distinct tone of irritation and anger entered her voice when she next spoke. "Hitler might have more of 'this' and more of 'that' Son," she replied, "but we British have got more of ‘what really matters’; and that's why we'll win through in the end! We've got right on our side, Son! We've got guts, courage and staying power! The English lion won't roll over and die just because old Hitler throws a few bombs at it! The British bulldog won't be muzzled into silent submission and wag his tail to Adolf's tune if old Hitler puts its bones on ration! Hitler won't beat the British, Son, because he doesn't understand what makes us tick! He doesn't know the way we think and he doesn't know the type of people he's dealing with!"
"He can knock us down a thousand times with his bombs, but he won't keep us down, and he'll never knock us out!" Robin's mother continued. "Hitler doesn't know it, but if his bombs killed one thousand of us today, before tomorrow had dawned, we'd have buried our dead, and in their stead another thousand would stand up to take their place! If there's one way that's guaranteed to unite any country, it's to bomb it! Never doubt it, Son, not for one moment," Robin's mother concluded, "Hitler will never win, because he'll never understand the price that free men and women are prepared to pay to keep their freedom! And, besides, he's got your dad to deal with also!"
As Robin and his mother waited for the 'all clear' siren to sound, they checked the provisions of their garden dugout. The shelter in the back garden of the Rubin's rented property was nothing more substantial than a good-sized grave, which had been lined at its base, roof and inner walls with sheets of corrugated metal. It was stocked with a small supply of emergency provisions and essential items.
All of the other shelters in the gardens of Old Kent Road had been built above ground level. With their arched roofs, door entrances and sides of corrugated sheets, they looked like garden sheds made from tin. Robin's father knew however, that no aboveground structure could offer any protection from the direct hit of a bomb. Shelters were designed simply to protect the occupants of them from explosive ‘fall-out.’ So when he built the garden shelter for his wife and Son, he decided to build it below ground as an added precaution.
The shelter had been built during January, 1940, just before Robin's father had been posted overseas to France. He'd been given a two-day pass to visit his family. The two days went by so quickly and most of the daylight hours were used up building the shelter. Robin helped his father with the digging. The shelter had been built on a plot of ground, which had previously been used for the growing of cabbages during peacetime. The dugout measured three yards in length, one-and-a-half yards in width and two yards in depth.
"It's just like a large grave!" Robin told his father after it had been dug out.
"I suppose it is, Son," his father had replied, "but believe me, it could save your lives if ever you're bombed!"
The dugout was then lined with sheets of corrugated metal to keep it dry and to prevent it from caving in. During earlier years, Robin's father had spent part of his life working as a miner and he was able to put this experience to good use as he built the shelter. Robin's father knew that all of the above-ground brick-built shelters which the Government had erected offered no protection if they ever experienced a direct hit. He also knew that Churchill had his own secret belowground bunker. It had also been reported in the press that even the toffs, who dined at the Savoy Hotel, danced the night away in the comparative safety of the hotel's sheltered basement. None of this, however, was afforded to the ordinary man and woman in the street who’d been left largely unprotected. The Government wouldn’t even allow them to use the safety of the underground tube stations at the start of the Blitz.
So, Robin's father became determined to give his wife and Son a fighting chance of survival during the air raids, by providing them with a belowground bunker of their own. "If it's good enough for the Prime Minister and London's toffs, then it is good enough for my wife and Son!" he had told Robin and his mother as they dug out the earth.
The roof of the Rubins’ shelter comprised of one large sheet of corrugated metal, which rested flat on the ground above. A small trap-door hatch was cut out; to enable entrance into the dugout below by means of a stepladder. After the shelter had been built, it was then stocked with just enough items to last twenty-four hours if needs be. Emergency provisions included two tins of beans, a can opener, two tin mugs, two spoons and one bottle of drinking water which was refilled daily. There was also one torch, one oil lamp, a packet of candles, a box of matches and two gas masks. Two comics were the only other items making up the emergency inventory.
After Robin and his mother had spent two hours in the shelter, the 'all clear' siren sounded. It was almost 2.00 a.m. "Come on, Son," Robin's mother announced. "Let's be having you back to bed. It's two o'clock and you've got to be up for school in six hours' time!"
As mother and Son let the shelter, they saw broken glass and roof slates scattered around the garden, but where they'd come from was anyone's guess. A quick glance towards the roof of 'Number 11' showed no sign of bomb damage and there wasn’t any obvious sign of the house windows having been shattered.
"You get yourself back into bed, Robin," his mother said as they returned inside their house, "and I'll be up in five minutes, after I've made us both a hot drink."
Robin went back up to his bedroom and looked out of his window. His bedroom window overlooked the back garden and the railway embankment beyond. Robin could see a shattered greenhouse at 'Number 3' and wondered if that could have been the source of the broken glass. Then, Robin removed his socks and shoes, and after replacing his scrapbook and photograph of dad on top of his bedside cabinet, he jumped into bed.
He'd just lived through another night of the bombs and he knew that the German planes would now be half-way back across the Channel; headed for home base. Once they'd reached home base, the German pilots would rest while their planes were refuelled and loaded up again with another batch of bombs, ready for another bombardment of London tomorrow night, or the night after that.
"Oh, why? Why? Why? Why?" Robin asked himself as he waited for his warm drink. "I hate Hitler! I hate war!" he exclaimed.
#####
Chapter Two
"Marching Orders"
"That's it, my boy! That's it!" Robin's mother announced as she entered his bedroom with a hot drink as promised. "That's it, Robin! Tomorrow I'm going to write to Granddad Potter and I'll speak with your headmaster. It's just too dangerous for you to stay here any longer. That's the fourth air raid we've had in the past five days! It's like living in the middle of a burning munitions factory! I'd rather have you living and being schooled in the safety of Surry than ducking and diving Hitler's bombs down the Old Kent Road!"
"But, Mum," Robin protested, "I don't want to leave you here on your own! I don't want to go to Surrey! I won't go!"
"Oh you'll go alright, Robin Rubins! You'll go! Be in no doubt about that! Besides, it'll be a good opportunity for you to get to know Granddad Potter better, and the country air and food will do you the world of good. Your granddad will love looking after you. He'll love having you back at 'Douglas Cottage'. It has been so long since he's seen you. After all, you are his only grandchild and 'Douglas Cottage' is more special to you than you can ever realise" Robin's mother told him. "In fact," Robin's mother continued, "I'll bet that when the time comes for you to return, you won't want to leave. Wild horses won't be able to drag you back to smoky, old London once you've tasted the fresh air of the Surrey countryside! And, talk about stories, my boy! Do you know Robin; nobody can tell a story like Granddad Potter. He can make your hair stand on end with some of the tales he tells; and he makes the best apple pie I've ever tasted!"
The well-intentioned reassurances of Robin's mother fell on deaf ears as her Son started to protest again. "But, Mum," Robin remarked in annoyance, "my place is here with you, not with Granddad Potter! What if the war ends next week and dad comes home? What if you get poorly and I'm not here? What if the house gets bombed? What if…"
"Now, look here, Robin Rubins!" His mother said before Robin could get another word of protest out. "Your place is where I put you! Where I say it is! ‘What if’ this and ‘what if’ that! I've never heard so many 'what ifs' come out of the mouth of a child in all my life!"
"But, Mum!" Robin started to protest again.
"I'll hear no more 'but Mums' out of you again, my boy! Do you hear me?" Robin's mother exclaimed in a tone of finality. "Now, button that lip, get that hot drink down you and get off to sleep! It's school tomorrow. And; just as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements, it's off to 'Douglas Cottage' with you!"
After Robin's mother had left his bedroom, having given him his marching orders, Robin felt angry. Everything seemed to be going wrong for him. His life seemed to have been turned upside down since his father had gone off to war. Nobody seemed to care what he thought about the war. Nobody listened to his views. He hated being a child and at moments like this, he hated adults; especially bossy mothers!
Under more normal circumstances, Robin would have welcomed the opportunity of visiting Granddad Potter with open arms. He couldn't remember the last time they'd met. But these weren't normal circumstances, and now wasn't normal times. This was wartime Britain, and like every other boy and girl in London, wartime children had to live their lives by wartime rules!
When the bombs were dropped, children had to learn to duck and dive. When the stomach was empty for want of food, children learned to go to bed earlier and sleep away their hunger. When blankets were scarce, children used their coats to add extra warmth to their beds. When the daylight ended and the blackout time arrived, children had to remember to draw the curtains closed before they put on the light. When the National Anthem was played in public, children learned to stand up and sing. When it was played in the privacy of the home, children learned to stay quiet until it had finished! Whether it be war or peace; children had rules to learn and obey. In wartime, there were simply more rules to learn and less adult tolerance when children didn't instantly obey them! Wartime was bad for everyone. It was bad for adults, but it was worse for children!
Deep down, his mother's threat to evacuate him to the safety of the countryside disturbed Robin and presented him with a moral dilemma. If he did what his mother wanted him to do and leave London, he'd be disobeying his father's final instructions to look after her. To Robin, leaving his mother alone in London during the Blitz would be nothing less than the dereliction of his duty. It would be like deserting his post on the field of battle. It would be tantamount to an act of treason and a betrayal of his wartime duties! Robin might have hated the war, but that didn't change the fact that while his country was at war, he felt that he had a duty to 'do his bit'.
"I'm not a deserter!" Robin protested as he punched his pillow. "Robin Rubin's no deserter! Well . . . I'm not going! I'm jolly well staying put! I'm not running away from old Hitler's bombs for anyone! I'm not going!" After punching the pillow for two or three minutes, Robin broke into tears. Protest as he may within the secret confine of his own bedroom, he knew that when the crunch came he'd be left with no choice, but to do as his mother told him.
His tearful eyes looked towards the framed photograph on his bedside cabinet. Seeing the image of his father's photograph staring back at him, produced a second bout of tearful protest. "I . . . I wish . . . that dad was here," Robin cried. "I wish that dad was here. He'd understand. He wouldn't make me go!"
The image of the framed photograph showed Robin's father dressed in the uniform of a British soldier. He had black, wavy hair and a small moustache. His eyes were hazel-brown and the smile on his face revealed him to be a man of warmth. As Robin gazed at the photograph, he saw his father as a champion of freedom and a warrior of the English King. He knew that had his father been clothed in the shining armour of a knight of Camelot instead of a green, twilled-cotton battledress, he would have looked no different than Sir Lancelot.
Since his father had been posted overseas in January, 1940, they'd received five letters. The last letter they'd received had been in May and they'd had no word since. For the past four months, they'd lived from day to day waiting for news, waiting for the next letter to arrive. They waited in hope, but they also waited in fear. For all they knew, he could be alive or dead. He could be badly wounded, blinded by gas, captured by the enemy or blown to bits!
To Robin, the worst thing about living during a time of war was the uncertainty; the cruel uncertainty of 'not knowing'! ‘Not knowing’ if your house would be bombed while you were at school! ‘Not knowing’ if your school would be bombed while you were at home! ‘Not knowing’ when the air-raid sirens would next wake you from your sleep! ‘Not knowing’ when you'd next have to duck and dive and run for cover! ‘Not knowing’ if your best friend, with whom you played marbles yesterday, would still be alive for another game today! ‘Not knowing’ when you'd next sit around the family table for Sunday dinner, when you'd next taste proper meat instead of tinned spam or eat a real orange or banana from South Africa! ‘Not knowing’ when your mum was angry, whether it was you or Hitler who'd upset her! ‘Not knowing’ if your dad was dead or alive! ‘Not knowing’ when the war would end! ‘Not knowing’ if life would ever return to normality!
‘Not knowing’ was a painful and frightening experience. ‘Not knowing’ filled the faces of adults and children alike. Robin had seen the look on his mother's face every day when the postman and the telegram boy did their rounds down Old Kent Road. He had watched her look of hope change to one of disappointment each time the postman walked past Number 11 without stopping. He had seen the tears slowly fill her eyes once she realised, that, yet again, there was no letter for her to read. There was still no news from her husband. She was still left ‘not knowing’ where and how he was. ‘Not knowing’ if he was alive or dead!
Then, following the disappointment of not having received the much-awaited letter, Robin would observe her as she struggled to bring back enough hope into her heart to keep her battling on another day. "Maybe tomorrow, Son?" she'd say with encouragement. "Perhaps we'll get a letter from your father tomorrow, Son!"
Day after day, week after week and month after month, the pain of 'not knowing' became unbearable. It made you feel like screaming out, "No more please! No more!" And yet, while everyone who had a loved one fighting overseas hated ‘not knowing’, the one visitor to their home who might be able to bring them news, was the most feared and least welcome of them all; the telegram boy. Nobody wanted the telegram boy to come knocking on their door with news of their loved one, because the only news that he delivered in his little, brown envelope was 'bad news'.
When the telegram boy came down your street, people would see him as the angel of death. Frightened faces would observe his passage; praying that he'd pass them by without stopping. Robin would see the fear in his mother's face as the telegram boy approached, quickly followed by an audible and visible sigh of relief as he passed by 'Number 11'.
Once this symbolic shadow of death had passed by your house, all eyes would trace his journey down the street. Wherever the telegram boy stopped, the heart of the recipient would sink as the typed message was placed in their reluctant hands. They would have to fight their resistance to opening it, for they sensed in advance that the news it contained would break their hearts and change their lives forevermore! The mere recognition of the first few words read would confirm their worst fears. If the telegram message started with the words, "We regret to inform you that . . . ....“, then anxious wives waiting for news of their husbands might be transformed to instant widows, or parents would be left standing on the doorstep grieving the loss of their soldier Son whilst young siblings in the wings would have to readjust to never seeing their older brother again.
No words would need to pass from the bereaved recipient of such telegrams to their neighbours. The mere closing of the front-room curtains in their house would instantly inform the rest of the street that their husband, Son or brother would never be coming home again! Even the death of a loved one often left the bereaved without the satisfaction of ‘closure’ as the agony of the loss didn't end there. The location of the soldier’s death or the absence of the soldier's body meant that they were rarely buried on home ground. Many a sorrowful widow or grieving parent had to wait until the end of the war before the pilgrimage to their loved-one's grave overseas could be made. Some were buried in mass graves; others, in unmarked plots in French fields, and many simply left to rot and decompose on the ground where they fell.
When Robin got up the next morning, he listened to the news on the wireless as he ate his bread and jam breakfast. The big news of the day was the damage, which had been done to Buckingham Palace during last night's air raid. His mother had already been up two hours. She'd cleaned the front doorstep, swept down the pathway outside 'Number 11' and mopped the kitchen floor. Robin deliberately avoided raising the topic of him going to Granddad Potter's cottage, in the hope that if it wasn't mentioned over the next couple of days, his mother might forget about the idea altogether.
Robin's mother hadn't been her usual self for the past couple of months. She seemed to get annoyed more easily and she always looked tired and worried. Robin knew that she was missing his dad, but so was he!
Halfway through the eating of his jam sandwich, Robin heard the milkman's horse and cart pull up outside the front door. He ran outside to pat the horse and to bring in the bottle of milk from the doorstep. "Hello Dobby," Robin said as he gently rubbed the horse's nose. "Hello Mr Foster," Robin added as an afterthought. "How's Dobby today?"
"He's fine; Robin," the milkman replied, "but the bombing upset him last night. I finished up spending half the night in the stable. Anyway, must get on. See you tomorrow."
"Bye Mr Foster. Bye Dobby," Robin yelled back. Robin liked Mr Foster who was always whistling, but he liked his carthorse Dobby, even more. Dobby was 18-years old and he'd been doing his job on the milk round so long that he'd automatically stop outside the customer's house. As Mr Forster delivered milk to two or three houses close by, Dobby would simply make his own way to the next customer's house, where he'd stop and await his owner. However, being a horse of routine and one of equally good memory, once a pint of milk had been delivered to any house for more than three consecutive days, that house remained on Dobby's door-stopping route forevermore; even after the customer had died or moved house! This behaviour of the animal was the only thing, which annoyed the horse's owner.
After bringing the bottle of milk inside, Robin used the temporary absence of his mother from the kitchen to indulge his taste for cream. He carefully removed the coloured cap from the bottleneck and sipped some of the cream, which rested majestically on the top two-inches of the milk beneath. Robin loved the taste of fresh cream and he knew that his only chance to indulge was to get to the bottle of milk on the doorstep before his mother got her hands on it. Once his mother got to the milk first, she'd turn the bottle upside down and shake it vigorously; thereby ensuring that the head of cream was evenly redistributed throughout the whole bottle.
"Robin!" his mother said in a tone of disapproval as she entered the kitchen behind his back. "You've not been drinking cream out of the bottleneck again, have you?" she asked.
As Robin considered whether to deny the accusation, he felt the coolness of the cream still lingering upon his upper lip. Quickly glancing in a mirror before him, he caught sight of a creamed moustache, which was hanging there as a visible admission of his crime. "I . . . I just took a little sip, Mum," Robin replied apologetically.
"And do you expect me to drink from that bottle after you've had your mucky mouth round it?" Robin's mother angrily remarked. "God only knows where your table manners have gone to! Ever since your dad left, your manners have gone from bad to worse! If you consider pinching cream to be 'doing your bit' for the war, then we may as well lock up the shop now and hand the keys over to Hitler! I never!"
"But . . . But it's only a bit of cream, Mum," Robin protested in defence.
"It might be only a bit of cream to you, my boy, but to me it's theft! Where do you think we’d be if we all abandoned our standards? How far do you think our pilots and gunners would get in the war if all the factory and munitions workers decided to take home a screw here and a nut there? We'd soon have planes falling apart in the air and rifles dropping to bits every time they were fired, and then; where would we be? Stealing is stealing, however you dress it up!"
Robin knew that his mother was in one of her ‘over-the-top’ moods so he decided that it was wiser and easier to cut his losses and allow himself to be branded 'a cream snatcher'. He decided to get his cap, satchel and blazer and head off for school ten minutes earlier than usual, before his mother had him tried as a war criminal for pinching the top off the cream!
"Now, you make sure you go straight to school, Robin," his mother instructed as he went out the front door, still eating the remains of his jam sandwich. "And don't go via Wellington Street, Son! According to Mrs Snow, two houses were bombed down there last night. Avoid Wellington Street and go through the snicket, up Windsor Way instead."
As soon as Robin had set off for school, his mother got herself ready for work. Before the war had started, Robin's mother never went out to work. In fact, very few mothers worked outside the home. The war changed all that though. Now, all the mums worked, 'doing their bit' for Britain. Most of them worked in factories, hospitals and engineering firms. Robin's mum had a job in a textile factory making uniforms and parachutes. Lisa Kingswell's mum even made bullets in a munitions factory!
Having received his clear instructions to go to school by a route, which avoided Wellington Street, needless to say, via Wellington Street was precisely the route, which Robin decided to go. Having already been branded a thief at the breakfast table, Robin decided that he'd become a rebel also; at least until home time. Besides, he wanted to see the bomb damage with his own eyes and knew that if he arrived at school not having done so, he'd be the only pupil in his class who hadn't seen the bombed houses for himself.