Special Church Parade

SPECIAL CHURCH PARADE

By Paul Diamond

The notice on Daily Orders was terse but explicit. "There will be a
Special
Church Parade for Jewish service men and women at the Central Synagogue
,
Birmingham on Sunday March 23rd 1945 at 1100 hrs. The address will be
given
by the Senior Jewish Chaplain to the Forces. Ratings who wish to attend
should
report to the Regulating Office."

There were five of us on HMS Duke. We'd all been called up into
the
Navy in the last couple of months and we were going through our basic
training
before being sent off to learn our various trades. The "ship" was sixty
miles from
the nearest sea and we spent our days square bashing, steering
imaginary
battleships and rowing whalers round the boating lake. We five knew
each
other, not because of any natural tendency to congregate but because of
our
isolated state on Sundays. Well scrubbed, highly polished in our number
one
uniforms we paraded with our shipmates and marched to the chapel
complex.
Rigid at attention we awaited the call from the Chief Petty Officer.
"Fall out all
Jews, Muslims, atheists and other 'eathens." Then it was back into
denim
overalls and galley duties while the others were at their devotions. We
all wanted
to go to Birmingham to escape from scrubbing out pans and carting
away
kitchen rubbish.

The Regulating Office was very off-hand about the whole
business.
"There's only five of you and there's 'undreds of your lot at the
Yankee air base
up the road. You'll report up there at o nine 'undred hours and travel
with
them."

We approached the American camp that Sunday with a mixture of
trepidation and curiosity. Our twice weekly visits to the cinema had
prepared us
for an encounter with the rich, handsome, violent, over-sexed Yanks. A
relaxed
guard at the gate took the cigarette out of his mouth to direct us to
one of a
group of covered lorries. As we climbed over the tailboard we spotted
our fellow
passengers crouched at the far end and peering intently at a pair of
dice. "Snake
eyes!" yelled one. "Aw shoot" drawled another throwing down a couple of
pound notes and heaving himself on to the bench which ran around the
wall of the transport. He noticed us. "Hey - Lookit, the Limeys. You
goin' to the Temple with us?" We nervously murmured a greeting as he
stuck out a large hand. "Sergeant Hank Goldberg from Chicago Illinois."
By now the others had settled themselves on the bench and were eyeing
us curiously and with some
amusement.

"Where are you guys from?" asked a short dark pfc. We started to
explain about our training ship but they were more interested in what
they called
our home towns. To them Stamford Hill and Brixton sounded like
country
villages and they were amazed to find that, apart from Martin who came
from
Salford, we were all Londoners. None of them had got to London yet and
we
were bombarded with questions about the big smoke. Most of their
curiosity
was directed to Soho, they called it SoHO, and Piccadilly where they
believed the
streets were paved with nubile and willing girls. To be honest none of
us
eighteen year olds had much experience of the demi-monde but we had
the
honour of our country and of the Navy to defend so we satisfied them
with vivid
descriptions of the beauty and insatiable lust of the West-end girls
drawn from
our adolescent fantasies. By the time we reached Birmingham we felt
well
established as European bon vivants and men of the world.

We were herded into the ornate Victorian synagogue which was
already
nearly full of uniformed men with a small group of ATS and WAAFs and
a
larger number of American WACs penned into the women's section. The
service
started almost immediately and we were treated to the unusual sight of
rabbis in
immaculate army officer's uniforms covered by robes and prayer shawls
and
topped by the cylindrical black velour hats of the orthodox.

The few traditional prayers and hymns were received politely if without
overmuch enthusiasm. The address, part sermon part pep talk, was about
the holy mission, especially for us, of destroying Naziism and the
equally holy mission of uprooting Japanese fascism. It ended with
warnings about keeping ourselves pure, remembering how distraught our
mothers would be if we failed. We finished by roaring out Odon Olom the
closing hymn in fast time, received the rabbinical blessing and piled
out into the weak spring sunshine.

"Where are you guys goin' now?" asked Hank. We looked at each
other.
"We're going back with you I suppose." Said Martin. "Well we ain't
goin' back
yet. How about you come and eat with us at our club." They had the
transport,
We were chronically skint. Happily we had no choice.

The American Services Club was a large dance hall which had been
converted into a home from home for the allies. As we approached the
red brick
building we noticed a rhythmic thumping and by the time we got to the
door we
could hear the familiar sound of "American Patrol" in the Glenn
Miller
arrangement blaring from inside. We knew the record well. But - this
was no
record. It was a live band. "American Air Force Band" said Hank.
"They're
visitin' this week." We were completely overcome. The great Glenn
Miller had
crashed into the sea only a few months earlier but the band were still
together
and we were going to see them - live! We waited while Hank arranged for
us to
go in as his guests. Then through the foyer and into the hall.

The music had changed to "In The Mood" still one of the icon tunes of
my
generation. The dance floor was covered with a writhing jitterbugging
mass of
khaki uniforms with a few colourful dresses. Legs kicked, skirts
swirled feet
stamped in frenzy as a player rose to play the Tex Beneke saxophone
solo. We
Brits stood transfixed. The Americans took it more casually. "Let's go
eat" said
Hank.

We went into the cafeteria and goggled again. The counter was
covered
in food that we had not seen in such quantity for years. Eggs, butter,
cheese,
ham (Ham?) were there in great piles. Baskets of fruit with oranges
bananas
and pineapples decorated the shelves at the back. We grabbed trays and
filled
plates sitting together at a long table. Some of the Yanks had taken
Coca-Cola
but Hank pulled a flat bottle of Bourbon whisky from a secret recess in
his
uniform and poured some into our glasses. "Lechayim" he toasted us. "Mi
zoll
leben iber a yoor" responded Maurice automatically. By the time we
had
finished the last spoonful of pineapple and cream and drunk the last
drop of
strong coffee the bottle was empty and we were feeling very
mellow.

Puffing at Lucky Strikes we wandered into the main hall to find that
the
music session was over and it had been converted into a cinema. We sat
sleepily
through a Betty Grable musical supported by a March of Time and yet
another
and very graphic exhortation to keep ourselves pure, but this time we
were given
very explicit instructions on the precautions to take if we found this
impossible.
By the time the films had finished it was time to eat again. More
whisky
appeared and the world seemed delightful if a trifle out of focus.
Sitting in the
cafeteria, chatting to the Yanks in a leisurely way we took our time
over the meal
until the strains of "Moonlight Serenade" told us that the musicians
were back
on the bandstand.

We were not quite sure how we would be received by the local girls in
the
club. After all we were younger, poorer and certainly less glamorous
than the
Yanks. However we had one great advantage. Although we could not
compete
as jitterbugs unlike them we were all fairly competent ballroom
dancers. In the
Jewish youth clubs in which we had grown up dancing was practically the
only
way boy could meet girl and certainly the only way in which boy could
hold girl,
at least on the premises. When Johnny Desmond rose to sing "At Last", a
slow
fox-trot, we came into our own. A very pretty dark haired WAC came up
to me
and commanded "Come on sailor. Let's see you strut your stuff." She
held on
tightly as I glided forward remembering all that Miss Monica
Marshmont
(Ballroom ballet and tap. Individual or group classes.) had taught me.
I
discovered that transatlantic dancing involved much closer contact than
I was
used to and that cheek to cheek was the fashion also bosom to bosom and
thigh
to thigh. Talking was not possible as my nose was buried somewhere
behind her
right ear. Anyway I did not want to talk. I was away at an American
high
school senior prom dancing with Judy Garland. I was Andy Hardy and
outside
was a convertible car whose cover went up and down at the touch of a
button.

I came back to Birmingham as the music stopped. "Come over and
meet
my buddies" said the WAC. She nodded to a group of uniformed girls who
sat
at a table with my shipmates. "We saw you at the Temple." she said.
"My
name's Carole. I'm from Flatbush. You ever hear of Flatbush?" A life
of
intensive cinema going had given me an honours course in the geography
of New
York City and she was delighted when I said that I knew of the suburb
and its
middle class Jewish population. "Most of these guys are farm hands from
the
sticks" she grumbled. "They know nuthin' from nuthin'". We sat at the
table
where Maurice was in intense conversation with a statuesque blonde,
Martin was
creating squeals of laughter with his Lancashire accent, Sid, the son
of a
Whitechapel kosher butcher was swapping life stories with Sadie the
daughter of
a Bronx kosher butcher and Norman had found a petite redhead called
Gloria
who shared his passion for the art of Bing Crosby.

We all danced in turn with each of the girls but eventually got back to
the
one we had started with. At one point I spotted Hank across the room.
He
grinned, made an O with his thumb and forefinger and raised it in the
OK sign.
Meanwhile the band played on; Chattanooga Choo Choo, Kalamazoo, String
of
Pearls, on and on. Maurice and his blonde left us and we guessed they
had gone
to look for a quieter and more private spot.

I could not have cared less. Made bold by the whisky I was sitting with
my arm round the prettiest of WACS chatting and laughing and flirting
and listening to the greatest popular music ever played. "I don't
suppose I'll see you again." I said. It was more an appeal than a
statement. "No" she replied. "We're pullin' out next week. "Can I write
to you?" I asked. "Sure. I'll send you an address when I get there."
She never did of course and really I never expected her to.

Suddenly the band went into "Moonlight Serenade" again. We danced for
the last time and it was over. As the final notes faded away she
pressed herself even closer to me and planted a great juicy smacking
passionate kiss on my mouth. I kissed her back with equal passion. We
were still locked together when I felt a thump on my shoulder. It was
Hank, "Come on lover boy, Time to go home. "Goodbye sailor. Take care
of yourself," she said and hurried away.

"What's the time?" I asked as we made for the waiting truck.
"It's
around midnight." somebody said. Strewth! We were still in training and
had
to be back "on board" before midnight. No overnight leave for us. The
only one
who was unperturbed was Maurice who had already become our barrack
room
lawyer with a fair knowledge of King's Regulations and Admiralty
Instructions.
"We're not on shore leave. We're on duty." "How are we on duty?" I
asked.
"Church parade counts as duty" said Maurice firmly. We were not
completely
convinced but there was nothing we could do about it now.

I leaned back on the bench in our transport and savoured the events
of
the day. The music and the dancing and the pretty girl from Flatbush
and the
food and the music and the girl and - sod it - I had forgotten to get
autographs
from the band. Another bottle of whisky was opened and passed round.
The
group was quiet now, some even managing to sleep against the canvas
wall of the
truck. We got to the gates of the Duke just after two, thanked Hank and
the
others and climbed down unsteadily.

We waved as the truck drove away and turned to find a reception
committee waiting. The guard had been turned out and stood menacingly
in line
facing us. In front of them, feet apart and swinging a nightstick
gently was the
Chief Master at Arms. He glared at us. "Where the bleet'nell 'ave you
lot
been?" We gathered in a rocky line and saluted unsteadily. "Speshul
Church
Parade shuh!" we chorused. "Speshul Church Parade."