"Ride The Donkey" - Chapter 2

IMPORTANT:-

As this is a book you need to read the introduction and chapter 1 first to follow it.
Intro is here " http://www.abctales.com/node/546185 "

"Ride The Donkey"

Chapter 2 - Background. Early Memories. Niggers; WOGs; Yanks; Frogs; Men & Soldiers.

I was brought up during the 'Great Depression' years of the nineteen thirties, in a small market town of some three hundred inhabitants. It nestled in a wind gap at the foot of the Pennines, in Northern England. The seventh son of a seventh son, I was one of fourteen children - not an unusually large family for that period. Most married couples ended up having six or seven kids; many had nine or more. Two neighbouring families had nineteen and twenty-one children respectively.

Some believe being a seventh son of a seventh son gives a person extra powers, or insight. There have been times I have wondered. Somehow, on balance, I doubt it.

Dad was an Army Medic in World War I, and then worked as a corn miller. Mum - surprise, surprise, - was a full-time homemaker. I could rabbit on, to the strings of a violin about how poor we were: That us kids went to sleep in shifts; took it in turns to wear the one pair of clogs we possessed; queued to warm our hands at the candle in winter, etc. That would only bore you ' some of it would be untrue anyway! However, times were hard, though us kids knew no different, and took it in our stride.

For sure, we did sleep on sheets made of sewn-together white linen flour bags. Our covers consisted of crocheted patchwork blankets made from thinly cut strips of anything from old dresses and shirts, to ladies stockings and bloomers - with hell knows what else mixed in. These home-made blankets were supplemented in winter by the addition of old Army, and other overcoats, scrounged from rummage sales. Most of our clothes were ex rummage sales, and handed down from one kid to the next. Despite this, we were no worse off than most around us.

It being the period between wars, and that following the Great Depression, most families were hurting. By some quirk of fate, I seemed to have been born with more brains than most around me, though I did have a very bright elder sister. She was the oldest child of our family.

My first definite memories are from when I was still two years old. I recall being released from the cupboard door to go to meet Dad. I'd better explain: Mum used to tie me to the cupboard door to keep me out of mischief. This was via a rope round my waist, tied to the doorknob just out of my reach. My being so secured must have made life easier for her, as she was inevitably pregnant.

It was not long before I learned to slip off my ill-fitting shoes, and place one atop of the other. Standing on them, I could reach the knob, and unscrew it. This afforded me freedom to get into mischief, and hastily resume my captive position at the first hint of danger. Dad cycled home for lunch. Mum would look out for him, and release me, so I could run the last few yards of the cobblestones to meet him. He would dismount, and lift me up onto the saddle, where I enjoyed riding those last few bumpy yards to our door. To little Frankie it was a great treat.

Our house was towards the end of a long terrace of houses. The row of dwellings had been converted, from what had once been a factory. Among other things that had been manufactured in there, were the sails of Lord Nelson's Flag Ship, HMS Victory.

Each house had a small living room, kitchen, pantry, and a cellar. Above, there were four tiny bedrooms. Five steps led up to the front door. We were lucky, and had a cold-water tap of our own indoors, and a shallow sandstone sink, but of course no electricity. We had one gas lamp in the living room, and an ancient gas cooker in the kitchen. Feeding pennies into a meter operated that, and many times the pennies were not available.

We had no toilet or bathroom. We did have access to a row of communal bucket toilets. Those were in an outside block, facing the centre of the terrace. I never did find out who it was that emptied the loo buckets in there. They always seemed full anyway, and the aroma of stale piss and well ripened shit stank something rotten.

Our front gardens were on raised ground, behind those toilets. In common with the rest of the community, we tended to pee in pots, or buckets, indoors mostly. These were emptied down the sink. In winter, with snow and ice about, it was often more than just pee went in the pots. We had a shit-bucket in the cellar. The older family members used that, and as it filled, the contents were used to fertilise the garden.

On my fourth birthday, I was presented with a bottle of milk. That may seem odd to you, but it was the first I'd ever seen. Our milk was normally doled out from a milk kit carried by a horse and cart, and poured into jugs, or other receptacles provided by the householders.

Fred - the milkman - had acquired a small bottling plant for his farm. Of course, it was straight from cow to bottle, via a pail and jug. There was no pasteurising, or hygiene, in those days, other than washing the bottles. It was a case of filling the bottles up, sticking a cardboard disk in the top, and putting them in a crate for delivery later. Did it taste good though!

Later, he got an electric milking machine. It had a set of rubber vacuum tubes that were placed over the cows' teats, and the milk was sucked out of each cow in turn, into a galvanised tank. This sucking was done with a rhythmic pulsing. It was not long before older boys found another use for those tubes - providing Fred was not around.

I do have some vague earlier memories; I recall being pushed in a baby carriage, and lifted out to sit on the grass verge to play with dothering grass (Alpine Cat's-tail), and pick wild flowers. If I were very lucky, I would see a car passing on the road. That was something of a rarity; only the village doctor had a car at the time. A couple of years on, the local parson got one. It was an open-back Vauxhall, as I recall. He would pile a number of us kids into the back, and take us a mile or so, then drop the small ones off to walk home. He carried on a bit further with a couple of the older ones. They always returned with pocket money. It was only later, I found out how they earned it! Times may change, but people do not.

Occasionally we would see a charabanc (bus), loaded with holidaymakers bound for the sea at Morecambe. More often, we saw a bunch of a couple of dozen or more cyclists bound for the same spot: Cycling was a reasonably cheap hobby indulged in by many in those days. Cycling clubs existed in most of the larger towns. Members usually wore variously coloured caps, shorts, and vests covered in badges of towns the owner had visited, and clubs they belonged to. All would wave cheerily, and we waved back.

Yes, it was good being three. The world seemed wonderful and full of new adventures, and experiences - and everyone seemed to love me.

* * * *
My first year at school had its highs and lows - mostly highs. As an infant, I was put to bed in the afternoon, in a small folding canvas bed with a knitted blanket for a cover. Still in the classroom, I was able to watch the other kids playing with an assortment of toys. These were very fascinating to me. I had never seen such wonderful things.

There was one toy in particular I dreamed of playing with. It was a small wind-up tinplate car. It had wheels that could be steered. To me that was wonderful. There were many other toys of course, but that car is the only one that sticks in my memory. (I later found that if one dismantled those tinplate toys, you could see they had been made from recycled thin tins and cans, and still bore the original advertising etc.: I recall 'OXO', 'BOVRIL', and 'JACOB'S CRACKERS', on some. The Japanese manufacturers seemed to waste nothing.

I remember playing with whips and tops, bowlies (metal hoop and stick), beanbags, medicine balls, hopscotch, skipping. The female teachers were great - full of enthusiasm, compassion, and understanding. I quickly learned to manipulate them - as I did most adults - and the other children. Most of the male teachers I encountered were sadistic bastards. They all seemed to get great delight from dishing out corporal punishment for the slightest of demeanours, Fortunately females predominated.

In those early years at the tiny school, I rapidly developed many of the characteristics that stayed with me throughout life. I had a natural talent for accomplished lying, deceit, self-preservation, manipulation, and conning others - whilst at all times emanating an aura of total innocence. I believe all kids start out with these qualities, but grown-ups soon suss them out. In my case, I perfected them. I also developed into a natural athlete, and talented player of most games. I particularly excelled at anything requiring hand-eye co-ordination. Those talents, coupled with my total self-confidence, at the time, led me to being accepted as a natural leader.

By my third school year, I was acknowledged as 'Cock of the School.' It didn't mean anything sexual, just that I could better any other pupils in a fight. Hence, even those kids two years my senior, refrained from engaging in any dispute with me. By the age of nine, I had formed my own gang. Initially, it followed the pattern of most kid's gangs: We played together, did odd pranks, and had a friendly rivalry with other gangs. That changed drastically following my court appearance: Our goal became organised crime against the 'Upper Classes', and most anyone in authority.

Despite all the members being older than I was, they obeyed every order without question. All were sworn to secrecy on pain of death. I am convinced they really believed I would have killed them if they'd breached the rules. (Maybe I would have at the time.) We carried out various nefarious escapades in the following years. In return for their loyalty, they received half of any spoils ' that was half between them, and half for me!

Most of us were from the poorer section of society. As such, money, and any small luxuries were always in short supply. The acquiring of these - by whatever means - became one of my gang's priorities, especially as we moved into the war years. In common with most kids, we raided the local orchards. However, we also stole strawberries, cherries, grapes, tomatoes, and such from the gardens of the wealthy. Among other things, shoplifting was practised to a fine art. With the onset of World War II, the scope of our activities increased.

By the time I was twelve housebreaking was a gang norm. We always had watertight alibis arranged. Our victims were chosen via another lucrative scheme I had developed - the 'Children's Help Society.' I got that idea from noting that people donated to occasional collections organised in the town for assorted good causes, or to help the War Effort. On the assumption that donating to us kids had to be a good cause, I arranged the acquisition of a number of collection boxes, and versed the gang-members on the patter to use. We regularly conned householders out of a few pence, in support of the 'Children's Help Society.'

That it worked so successfully, on a regular bimonthly rota between the adjoining villages, is a tribute to the gang members' convincing performances, and the generosity of the less well-off Northerners. Whilst making these collections, houses of the better off, and shops, were noted and earmarked as targets for later break-ins. We did not operate the swindle in our own town. The old adage of 'Not shitting on your own doorstep,' held good for us even then.

* * * *
Those first school years also provided other highlights. I was privileged to watch one of the world's great airships, as it flew over the school on its way to disaster. That was the Hindenburg - which came to a sad end on May 6, 1937. I remember another teacher bursting in on our lesson. She told our teacher to take us all out into the playground. It was a beautiful day, and we watched for what must have been several minutes, as the airship quietly moved towards us, flew almost directly overhead, and slipped like a silver ghost into the far distance. Thinking back, it must have been only about a thousand feet high.

In addition, we had all watched an almost complete eclipse of the sun. None I have witnessed since held such awe for me as that first one: As the sky darkened, all nature seemed hushed. I think it scared all us kids to some degree at the time.

Then - earlier - there was the abdication of the king. I recall everyone was singing, "What's this coming down the street? It's Mrs. Simpson's sweaty feet. There were other similar derogatory ditties. She was one unpopular Yank.

One of my most embarrassing moments will seem very trivial to you. At the time, it was quite devastating for me. Having been home to lunch, I returned to class. It was only when I noted some surreptitious glances from other children, that I realised I was still wearing a bib. Mother had stuck it round my neck to save food dribbles messing my shirt. Only my status saved me from a real ribbing by the other kids. I brazened it out, and continued to wear it, convincing them I was doing it to win a bet from my older brothers.

I have said little of my brothers, and sisters. In truth, this is about me, so, although they were ever-present in support, I will only mention them when they were actually involved in a particular event. Nevertheless, I loved them dearly. Sadly, I lost two of them early in the blood bath called World War II.

Other childhood highlights I remember, are seeing the incredibly skilled, and daring performances of ex-World War I air crew, who scraped a living by 'barnstorming', 'wing walking', and other daring-do. They had no ropes or safety harnesses in those days. It was just guts and skill. They did this, travelling from village to village, using any available meadow to land and take off on. Between displays, they provided short flights for the nobs, and well-to-do folk able to afford the half crown fare. There were also the visits from travelling fairs, and an occasional circus.

Our town always had cricket matches arranged against the International touring teams during our annual Show Week. I vividly recall the Australian and West Indies visits in particular. In my teens, I played against the likes of Sonny Ramadhin, Alf Valentine, Frank Worrell, Clyde Walcott, and Everton Weeks. I also played against the great Australian Don Bradman, and had the honour of catching him out on the boundary. It denied him moving from ninety-eight, to making a century against us. I felt really smug about that. As he left the pitch, he shook my hand, and congratulated me on making a difficult catch.

You must forgive me for flitting from one topic to another: I jot them down as recalled - one memory triggering-off another. I do attempt to follow some semblance of chronological order. So far, I have hinted at the mostly dark side of my character. There is of course a more acceptable side, and I like to think that, for all the ills I have done, I have equally brought help and happiness into just as many lives.

* * * *
If I have one pet hate, it is an overwhelming loathing for those who abuse the authority invested in them. Be it Armed Forces NICO's, or Commissioned Officers, Police, Politicians, Employers, Attorneys, Local Government Officers, Teachers or Preachers, or whoever - I have had bad experiences of them all. The saying that power corrupts, is so often a very true one.

This aversion stems from my childhood initially, and permeates right through my adulthood. Whatever the explanation psychologists may give for the permanent 'Big Chip' I have carried on my shoulder throughout life, I have my own views: I think it stems from that first unjust brush with the law ' when I was wrongly convicted, and punished for a crime I did not commit. Hell, I was only nine years old anyway!

Those war years bring back many memories. Many experiences then, influenced my thinking in later years. How I viewed different Races, for one thing. The actions and behaviour of visiting military personnel left its mark. As a teenager growing up in World War II, I encountered a number of members of other countries, and formed opinions of them. Those opinions have not changed all that much.

Originally they were the stereotypes indoctrinated into us through school, newspapers, films, and opinions expressed by the adults around me. These opinions were confirmed, or modified later. I soon developed my own very set views of the various world races as my experiences of them grew. Let's take my own fellow citizens first: The locals - English, Welsh, Scots, the North, and Southern Irish:

The average English soldier was poor, pretty pissed off, envied the Yanks, and pitied Niggers. He feared and respected his Non-commissioned Officers. He considered his Commissioned Officers as inbred upper-class idiots that he was forced to salute. When it came to fighting on the battlefront, he would avoid it if he could. If not, he made the best of it, and his discipline tended to get him through.

In battle, he liked Aussies, or Canadians to be alongside - or covering his arse. He respected German soldiers, had total contempt for Italians, and never trusted the French. Yanks were useful for supplying cigarettes - and giving them a laugh, with the bullshit that oozed from them.

The Welsh, I saw as high-pitched-voiced, fast-talking, sly creatures. They were either short and thin, or short and fat, and always seemed to be begging a cigarette, or wanted to borrow something that would never be paid back. They sang patriotic Welsh songs loudly in pubs, took any drinks offered, and retired for a piss when it was their turn to buy a round of drinks. They tended to stick together, and play cards - unless they were in battle - where they kept crouched in the shelter of any bigger soldier's body.

The Scots tended to be very loudmouthed; mostly drunk, and looking to cause trouble, or start a fight. In battle, they were like the English, and made the best of it.

The Northern Ireland soldiers were poor, loyal, and dependable. They liked a drink when they could afford one, and enjoyed a fight. I saw the Southern Ireland men as pitifully poor, good, hard-workers, and not to be trusted - as they did not fight for the Allies, and many aided the Germans.

The Polish to me seemed to keep to themselves a lot. However, they were polite if one started a conversation. They were quite meek, but once I had gotten them talking it became obvious they had suffered much. They seemed to bear no real hatred of anyone - other than Russian officers, and the Gestapo. I think I would have appreciated having them on my side in a fight.

The Wops (Italians) appeared to have the least stomach for warfare of any race. Hardly cowardly - more that they just did not want to be involved. I only saw them as POWs. (Prisoners of war). They integrated well, were respectful, rather than subservient, and appreciated the way they were treated. They were hard working, and skilful in various ways. They seemed to be family-orientated and loved kids.

Jerries, (Germans), hated and feared their own officers, fought hard because they had to, were glad to be prisoners and out of it. They were liked by the locals, and mixed well, bringing new skills to the area, which they shared with the populace.

The word WOG meant an Arab or Indian to me. I saw them as turbaned religious fanatics, bent on killing the 'infidel'. Some were on our side, and some opposed us. They crawled about on their bellies, with knives in their mouths. The friendly ones would slit your throat if you turned your back - so would the others.

Yanks, (Americans) consisted of several different groups: There were the larger-than-life, loudmouthed caricatures of an officer; they usually had big bellies, bulging out from above low-slung army belts sporting a handgun. A few of these guns were service issue; many were ostentatious Wild West revolvers, or such.

A half-chewed cigar usually hung dribbling slaver from podgy lips. They must have seen themselves as the epitome of John Wayne, or Errol Flynn. Sad really, as although on films, those two won every war single-handed, in fact, I got the impression that those two managed to avoid any contact with military service ' unlike other film stars who served willingly and with distinction.

Those Yank officers were all mouth and trousers to me. If they had a superiority of ten to one in battle, they were heroes. Any less odds than this, and they would retire to a safer Headquarters, and scream for the Air Force, or Navy, to bail them out. These officers would have been more useful to us if they had been in charge of the enemy.

The ordinary Yank soldier consisted of four main types. The first was the New Yorker. It seemed that any of those Americans that lived within two hundred and fifty miles of the place, claimed to come from New York. If they had an Aunt that lived there, had passed through it once - or maybe saw a picture of it as a kid ' they were seemly New Yorkers!

Those tended to be similar, but lesser versions of their officers. They gave the impression they had popped over the 'pond', to spend a couple of weeks digging the British out of the shit, and whopping the ass off Hitler, and the Nipps (Japanese). In their spare time, which they expected to have plenty of, they would treat the English girls, by giving them what they believed, was a man-sized fucking. The girls thought they were piss-poor at it ' but let 'em anyway ' in exchange for nylons and other goodies.

As a soldier, the 'New Yorker' would expect to be riding a Jeep, and driving a rabble of demoralised Germans - in full retreat - all the way to Berlin. In my opinion, it would have taken a whole bunch of those guys to replace any one wounded Commonwealth soldier - hopefully unaccompanied by officers.

The only soldiers able to rival these New Yorkers were the Texans ' at least in their own estimation! They were, in general, tall and pathetic, badly educated, grown-up kids. Fortunately, for them, they were too stupid to realise what idiots they were.

Next came the non-Texan, non-New Yorker. He was a quieter person. Better paid than the British, in civilian life he was probably no better off than them. He was typically American, but had many things in common with the Limeys (British). He probably came from a smaller community than the New Yorkers, worked on the land, or in a factory ' or was unemployed. He had no wish to go to war, but now he was there, would do his bit. He tended to be respectful, mix in, appreciated the company of the local females, and was generous with the extras he had as an American, without being Baghdad about it.

As a soldier, only his uniform would distinguish him from non-Americans around him. His hate, and fear of war, would be just as strong as theirs was. His dislike of officers and respect for his NCO's paralleled the British. His willingness, and ability to adapt, and his preparedness to give of his best, would make him their equal in battle. Luckily, America was a big country, and there were many genuine GIs like those.

Niggers were something else. As a kid and church member, I had thought of Niggers as Africans - coming mainly from Nigeria. They were a poor race, lacking in schools, and medical services. We had monthly church collections, for church charities helping these people. Our local paper - in common with many - had a children's 'Nig Nog' Club. We collected things to send to the poor children of Africa, and exchanged paintings we did at school with them. Calling them Niggers was anything but derogatory. It was just a collective name, used in the same way as we called ourselves British. It was only with the coming of the war, that I became aware of so many residing in America.

How did I see them? The ones I had any contact with, were quiet and subdued. They were surprised when we spoke to them as equals. Despite making up a considerable portion of the American army, they were, at best, tolerated by white Americans. Often being hated and despised by them ' particularly Texans.

I saw them as on a par with the ones in Africa, and elsewhere that were giving their lives for freedom in general, and we kids in particular. They fought willingly, to help the very people that had in the past ravaged their women, enslaved their people, and robbed their land of its riches. As a kid, I had nothing but admiration for them. Since then, I have met a few real bastard Niggers. However, I have met many more bastards of other races. My opinion of those 'Coloured Gentlemen' in general, has not changed. I am proud to have many of them as friends.

As for Frogs - they were French weren't they! There must have been some good ones among them, I suppose. I never yet met one. I saw them as having a born dislike for the British - having been whipped by them so often in battle. Like the soldiers I knew, I would not have sought to rely on them for anything.

Canadians, Anzacs (Australia and New Zealand), Ghurkhas and such were seen by me as, reliable, and good allies ' the equal of any, and better than most.

I saw the Japanese as small, slit-eyed, swarthy characters, dedicated and fanatical, with no respect, either for their own life, or for that of the enemy.

So much for my views of others, formed as I lived through a world war. I wonder how much our views, and those of children from other countries at the time, have contributed to the wars, unrest, and hate between races since? More - I wonder what teenagers of various races think of the rest of us old-timers today!

Only by understanding, respecting, and tolerating each other, can we have any hope of world peace.

Chapter 3 - Revenge; A Pony Burns. We Bomb a House.