He had left school for a job at the coalface, but in 1938, he could see what Neville Chamberlain couldn’t grasp for another 12 months. There was going to be a scrap, and he wanted some, so he left the pit and joined the army. He chose the 12th Lancers, because he liked horses. He never saw a horse. He signed up for 6yrs with the colours, and 6yrs in reserve.
His family background was more like that of a wild tribe of Iceni than a 20th century family. His mother, Nora, had been a dancer before marrying, a chorus girl at the music hall which was where the Crucible Theatre now stands. She was kicked in the mouth by a horse. While dancing? An assessment, was it? Some would say it didn’t kick hard enough. Her oldest brother married a girl called Polly Baines, who had a wooden leg. It’s no more relevant now than it was then, but it still gives an odd pleasure to be able to boast ‘I used to have a great-aunt Polly with a wooden leg’. You must admit, as a non-sequitur, it’s an absolute show-stopper. I sometimes varied it with ‘I once had a great-aunt with a wooden leg called Polly’, but I got tired of waiting for someone to ask ‘What was the other leg called?’ so I decided to leave it out.
John Robert was the last of 8 children- by the first husband, that is. At a later stage, Nellie and the woman next door swapped husbands. It was all done legally, amicably, neat and tidy. Nellie’s second husband was called Somerset, nicknamed ‘Mouse’ because he was such an unimpressive little creature, but often referred to as ‘Old Somerset’ to distinguish him from his son who was already married to Nora’s youngest daughter. Nora then had two more children by Old Somerset.
I don’t know how or when Betty and John first got together, but it didn’t suit his mother, for some reason, so she contrived some sort of mischief, poisoned John’s mind against Betty, and managed to get them to part. The next time Betty had any news of John, some weeks later, it was somewhat alarming. While in barracks at Aldershot, he’d ‘jumped the wall’ and was in West Bar police cells, under arrest for desertion, awaiting return to barracks for court martial.
He had received a very upsetting letter from his mother, asking for money, and telling how the rest of the family had all forsaken her. She was starving, near destitute, and about to be evicted. Instead of applying for compassionate leave, then cooling his heels waiting, watching time pass, only to risk finding his request refused, he simply went AWOL. He arrived at his mother’s home to find her not in, but according to a neighbour, she was fine, hale and hearty, and last seen heading for the pub with her cronies.
Then his brain finally caught up with his feet; he realised what he’d done, and what a mess he was in. He went to the nearby home of his sister, Grace, and told her the whole sad tale. She calmed him down, gave him a bath and a hot meal, and put him to bed. When she was sure he was asleep, she called the police and turned him in. No, it wasn’t a rotten thing to do, it was the best thing to do. Well, second best, because the best thing would have been for him to turn himself in, but she knew he was far too wound up for that.
So when Betty heard about the mess he was in, she hot footed it down to West Bar cop shop, arriving at the same time as his mother! The atmosphere was tense, to say the least. When John was brought into the visiting room, Betty was appalled by his wretched appearance. He was bare-foot, manacled, and handcuffed, and having to hold up his trousers because his belt and braces had been confiscated. She said it was heart breaking to see him, shuffling along, because of the manacles on his ankles, which were already raw with chafing. His bare feet must have been freezing, on the concrete floor, and being restrained by the handcuffs, he could only hold up his trousers by the front, while the seat hanging down between his legs just completed the picture of utter despair and wretchedness.
“Why ever did you do it, John?” asked Betty, incredulously. John simply pointed at his mother and exclaimed, in a voice choked with despair, rage and anguish-
“Ask that lying cow!”
The rest of this interview was never vouchsafed to me, but the upshot of it was that Betty and John became an item again. On his return to barracks, he explained everything to his C.O. He was even able to show him Nora’s original letter. The C.O. accepted his explanation, was very sympathetic, and promised to do all he could. Subsequently, all charges were dropped.
Betty and I used to visit Grace, when I was little. She had a huge rocking horse, which I was allowed to ride. Many years later, Valerie and I took our son, also John Robert, and our daughter, Miriam, to meet Grace, and I asked about the long gone rocking horse, and which room it had been in. She said it was in the kitchen.
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| The Rocking Horse |
Strangely, I don’t recall a range, cooker, sink, dresser, table, anything to say ‘kitchen’ or anything else, for that matter. All I can see, still, is the magnificent, huge rocking horse on its heavy wooden frame, dominating and filling the room.
Grace also spoke of her father. When he was dying, of cancer, he would lie down and place a penny piece on his palm. Grace, in her early teens, was required to trail her finger round and round the penny, which had a soporific effect on him. When he eventually drifted off to sleep, she was allowed to remove the penny for herself. So what? Well, put this against Betty’s assertion that John, more than once, expressed a desire to die like his father-with his boots on. Maybe the puzzle will start to solve itself if, without putting too fine a point on it, we allow that different people might have had different ideas about who was whose father. Don’t mither at me. It's my family, remember.
We visited Grace several times, in her last years. She talked incessantly, about times past, the family, her family, and her conversation was like a commentary on a never-ending fistfight. Who thumped who, who gave somebody a pasting, who threatened to chuck somebody down stairs, who got a black eye from who, for Christmas. But when she talked of Betty and John, it was with warmth and affection. Eventually I took the day trip to Sheffield for her funeral.
John may have been a wild one, a bit of a bruiser, but he wasn’t without sensitivity. In the Hodgson Street house, there was a gas light, at high level, over the sink. Even John, at over 6ft, had to stand on a small stool, to reach to light it. At one time, a stray kitten had wandered in and adopted them, without the slightest encouragement. On a leave visit, before marriage to Betty, John in uniform and boots, obliged Jane by climbing up to light the gas mantle for her. On stepping down of the stool, he accidentally stood on the kitten, killing it instantly. He sat down and cried.
It is from him that I get my artistic ability. After I was born, when he wrote home, he would often include a drawing of a Disney cartoon character. Betty would paste them onto card, and I would be given one for being a good boy, on Amami night. I thought amami meant bath, because I always had a bath on Friday night, dubbed ‘Amami night’ by the makers of Amami shampoo, in their advertising. We used the word, but not the shampoo.
I would be bathed in the tin bath, on the hearth, and by the time I was dried, jarmied and dressing gowned, the bath would be empty and dry again. I would be given the new drawing, if there was one, and climb back into the bath, to curl up and doze, for a while, before going to bed. Then the bath went back on its hook, in the cellar wall.
If ever you see an old zinc wash tub, in a junk shop, run your fingers over the inside. Chances are you will feel the hard coating of soap, on the surface. I can still feel and smell it, on the inside of my long gone, little tin bath.
So, in 1939, Betty and John were an Item again, but before their romance could develop much further, young Johnny considered himself overdue for some action in the B.E.F. fixtures list. He kept hearing of various mates shipping out to France, and he was cheesed off with waiting. At last, he got his chance.
He volunteered for a bunch of Lancers, going to join a front line reconnaissance unit, but the jaunt began with a crash course in motorbike despatch riding. He was issued with a huge B.S.A. On leave, it wouldn’t fit up the bottom entry, into the yard. It nearly made it, but came up against a protruding rainwater pipe, and so had to be backed out to the street again, which didn’t amuse the queue behind him. Then he had to ride it round the block to the top entry, where there was no such obstruction.
Then he was off to France! The unit he was joining was stationed at Valenciennes, close to the Belgian border, in barracks shared with a French cavalry unit- ‘Poilus’, for whom he developed a fraternal respect. The reconnaissance outfit was called ‘Phantom’ and was classified as a secret organisation. They were designated by a shoulder flash of a white letter ‘P’ on a black rectangle. While bike training, in barracks, before embarkation, if they had any leave, or were leaving barracks for any reason, these shoulder flashes had to be removed, to be sewn back, on return. This was because of the secret organisation status, which was partly because, the organiser, one Hopkinson, was shrewd enough to realise that if you called yourself a secret organisation, bureaucracy would give you almost anything, and question nothing, and partly because the reconnaissance element, comprising despatch riders and light, ‘Guy’ armoured cars, were operating largely behind enemy lines.
They collected information on enemy troop strengths, positions and movements, armour, artillery, supplies, obstacles, location and condition of bridges, roads, railways. This information was then processed by Hopkinson’s partner, Fairweather, but instead of it being transmitted to London, to be tutted over, and filed by green staff officers, Fairweather’s intelligence team of radio transmitters simply distributed it to front line units who Fairweather’s staff considered to be in most need of it.
The Lancers’ troop arrived in Valenciennes, Nov.’39. ‘One thing I’ve got with despatch riding-a sore arse!’-J.R.S., and in the following February, they were due to go home, to be replaced by a troop from the Royal Tank Regiment. The Lancers duly went home, less two defectors- the troop’s original C.O., Capt. Warre, and 883466 Smalley, J.R., trooper. Both had transferred to Royal Tanks. Having worked so hard to get out to France, John was going to stay there.
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| Gracie |
On April 26th, during a tour of the British sector, Gracie Fields heard of this small British unit, stuck out in the sticks, at Valenciennes, and insisted on extending her tour, to pay them a visit.
During the 50th anniversary of V.E. Day, a programme about entertainment during the war, showed a clip of this visit. The makers of the programme very kindly sent me a copy of it, after I had written to tell them of my interest. It’s very strange to watch this two or three minutes of film. Gracie is sitting in the back of an open truck, throwing packets of biscuits into the small crowd of men in gas capes and tin hats. It’s even stranger to look at one particular 20yr old, and know him to be my father. In the film, he’s the one who lives, not I. In the film, he will live for ever, age not weary him and all that, while I will never exist.
Since I’ve been living my charmed life in Norfolk, happily married with two fine children, earning a crust by doing what I enjoy most, and while Betty was still alive, I used to think, if he had come back we could have been such good friends. We could have worked together. ‘Smalley and Son- Landscape Painters in Oils’. Betty never fully accepted that he was under the stone bearing his name. She was afraid that he was wandering, somewhere, not knowing who he was, and this fear gave birth to the tiny hope that he might come back. I let myself be sucked into this hope because it was nice, and it cost nothing, in that it disrupted nothing. What was that clever advertising phrase for the National Lottery? ‘Maybe…just maybe…’ well, when Betty died, the maybes died. Now I have to consider, if he had come back, he might have gone back down the pit, and dragged me with him, and where would that leave me now?
On May 7th, 1940, a general warning went out that a German invasion of Belgium could be expected in the next few days. The ‘few days’ were three. At 6.45 a.m., on May 10th, a general signal announced the advance of German forces into the Low Countries. At 9.10 a.m., the last Phantom vehicle left barracks. They were on the frontier by 10 a.m., leading the British Army. Sometime that day, they passed through Armentiers, where John picked up the soldiers’ New Testament, in which he later wrote “This testament was picked up on May 10th, 1940, when we were falling back on Dunkirk” They were to spend nearly three weeks on or beyond enemy lines, reporting on movement of troops, armament and artillery, both friendly and hostile.
By May 27th, Fairweather’s wireless unit had ceased to function, thus making Hopkinson’s intelligence gatherers redundant. So early next morning, Capt. Warre’s Phantom squadron began to assist in rearguard actions, covering general withdrawals. During that day, the armoured car John was driving caught fire, and he was obliged to proceed on foot. By afternoon, they had arrived at La Panne, one of the beach areas, where they assumed control and policing, of approach roads, and decommissioning of abandoned vehicles. This latter was achieved by walking along the line of parked vehicles, and lobbing grenades into the engines.
The final Phantom embarkation took place only on May 31st. The entire force embarked on two vessels, Hopkinson’s marauders on one, and Fairweather’s intelligence unit on the other. The latter sustained a direct hit, on the point of departure. She went down with the loss of all but a handful. John was on the other vessel. I believe this was the last embarkation of all.
Back in England, sitting through the evacuation of Dunkirk, no one had any news of John until his sister, Alice, saw a newsreel clip of him disembarking at Southampton. This was at the Carlton cinema, Arbourthorne. When she saw her brother, safe and sound, she just jumped up and yelled her head off. The staff collared her, and when she explained herself to the manager, he invited her to stay behind after the performance, so he could run the film again for her, so she could be sure it was John. When the hero returned home, his mother feasted him with an enamel washing up bowl full of fish from the chip shop.
Hopkinson soon re-organised Phantom into G.H.Q. Liason Regiment. After several months of living like a glorified telegram boy, John transferred into Royal Tank Regiment proper, which put him on track for North Africa (Alamein) with the Eighth Army, Sicily, Italy, and Normandy. Hopkinson revitalised the old Phantom Force in its original identity, and they went on to do sterling work throughout the war, particularly in the Middle East.
John did manage a leave at Christmas 1940, when a good time was had by all, so good in fact, that he had to arrange another leave in March, to marry Betty in order to smooth the way for my birth, in September.
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| The Wedding |
I always had the impression that no one believed that they really loved each other. Everyone seemed to think that they’d had their fun, got caught, and made the best of a bad job. No one else ever heard Mom tell me “I used to say to your Dad, ‘I love you so much, it hurts’”. Neither did they see her collapse on his grave, nor hear the sobs that racked her.
His last leave was in ’44, just prior to Normandy. He had been shipped home from Italy to familiarise himself with a new tank. It was a ‘Cromwell’ and he didn’t like it.
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| Cromwell Tank |
He was a driver, and the driver’s seat had no escape hatch, which may have been his downfall. He had a mascot, a little, one-eyed bear, called Nelson. I have it, still, because on that last leave taking, he insisted on leaving it behind, saying he didn’t need it, because he knew he wasn’t going to make it back.
With 1st Bn Royal Tank Regiment, in 7th Armoured’s Desert Rats, since Alamein, John passed over Gold Beach on Day One, 8.a.m. with 22nd Armoured Brigade, supporting 50th Highland Infantry division. He was in Monty’s heavy weather, east of Caen, when 7th, 11th, and Guards’ armoured divisions were claiming the attention of seven German armoured divisions, so that the Americans in the west, who had four need only face two, for the start of their proposed, broad front, offensive- Operation Cobra. The Americans, however, refused to get their arses into gear until Monty delivered Caen, as first promised. This was finally done on 19th July, at a cost of 413 tanks. Eisenhower’s only reaction was ‘Too many tanks for too few miles’.
Cobra was postponed because of pissistant rain, but 335 U.S. aircraft weren’t informed of the cancellation. Consequently, they took off and bombed their own front line. Cobra finally uncoiled on July 25th.
By sheer coincidence, a Canadian lieutenant general Crerar had decided to initiate his newly formed 2nd Canadian Corps by launching his own operation down the Falaise Road, code named ‘Operation Spring’. He had asked for, and been given, 7th and 11th Armoured, as support.
The Canadians were met by an impenetrable wall of fire from 1st and 2nd S.S. Panzers, so the 7th were called up, and advanced straight into a killing field. The fighting was so fierce, that even though called off after 24hrs, the operation held full German attention for a further 12hrs. They dismissed Cobra as a diversion, to be ignored, being convinced that Spring was the main offensive. This was partly because of Cobra’s slow start, which again began by bombing short, on their own front line, the dead including the highest ranking allied officer to die in Europe.
In a field beside the Falaise Road, among the dead, lay 883466 Smalley, J. R., trooper, 1st Bn Royal Tank Regiment.
Some weeks later, Dorothy’s husband, Alex, found himself within walking distance of 7th Armoured’s bivouac area, so he took himself off to make enquiries about ‘Smiler’ Smalley. He found someone who had known him-
“Yeah, I saw him kop it. They shot half his face off”.
With no escape hatch over the driver, right up front, and a crew of five all coming out of a crippled tank via the turret- well, remember that old chestnut about the third light from the match being when the sniper fires? You might say the sniper had two ‘lights’ in hand, and a bullet makes a small hole going in. It’s on its way out that it tears a big hole- say half your face? Pretty wild conjecture, but if I’m right, then it was instantaneous, and he probably knew nothing of it.
While in North Africa, John included in a letter, the English lyrics of ‘Lili Marlene’- obviously, the version popular with the 8th Army, at the time. I’ve included them because they make interesting reading, if compared to the English version later recorded by Dietrich. Let me remind you that the song was originally a popular marching song, with Rommel’s Afrika Korps. When the Desert Rats heard it, they liked it so they stole it. So the two English versions come by very different routes, from the same original German lyric. The second was quite easy for Dietrich with her battery of hired writers, the first not so easy- for some Tommy, swanning around in the Blue. First, he had to collect the original lyrics, without getting shot for his trouble, then he had to translate them- not too difficult if you speak German, then the hard bit is rendering it into verse, while staying true to the original meaning.
Lili Marlene
Every night I’m waiting, by the barrack gate
Beneath the swinging lantern, just wondering if I’m late
And so this evening if I’m free,
I shall be waiting there to see
Just you, Lili Marlene, just you, Lili Marlene.
But even as the bugle has sounded our goodbye
Farewell my Love, don’t leave me with a sigh.
Your picture I’ll carry deep in my heart,
Your smile, Sweetheart, I cannot part
From you, Lili Marlene, from you, Lili Marlene.
Tie me up a rose bud with a lock of your hair.
I’ll place it ‘neath my pillow and always keep it there.
Now we are parting you grieve today
Who can say- you will be gay
With whom, Lili Marlene, with whom, Lili Marlene?
When once again I’m marching along the dusty road,
I feel my body tremble beneath its heavy load.
My heart grows weary with each mile
But then I smile and think awhile
Of you, Lili Marlene, of you, Lili Marlene.
When I lay my head on my pillow, your face seems to appear,
As on those nights in England when stars were shining clear,
And in the night, does my heart burn,
And ever yearn for my return
To you, Lili Marlene, to you, Lili Marlene.
This other song, I learned at Betty’s knee, and I never heard a whisper of it any where else, so it’s here on the slim chance that some Old Sweat will happen to glance over your shoulder and supply the last word, which has eluded me for 60 odd years. 20 Gold Flake and a dozen I.P.A. for the first convincing reply?
8th Army marching song – Sueza Bint
My son, he joined the army, not so long ago
They sent him out to Egypt right away.
He didn’t like it at first- couldn’t quench his thirst.
The flies were buzzing round him all the day.
One Sunday afternoon, he thought he’d like to spoon,
So to a little Egyptian girl he said-
Sueza bint, I like your charming manner.
To walk with you would be my greatest joy.
Your dainty little yashmac, your fingertips so blue
Make me want to dream but it would mean a kiss I’d lose.
Two eyes a-fire, they make me feel a squire.
I’d give my heart if I could call you dear,
But I think I’ll call you ‘Lena’ ‘cause I loved you first at Mena
You’re my little ‘Gypo’ bint, my-------- -------- ----------.
My son, he joined the army, not so long ago
They sent him out to Egypt right away.
He didn’t like it at first- couldn’t quench his thirst.
The flies were buzzing round him all the day.
One Sunday afternoon, he thought he’d like to spoon,
So to a little Egyptian girl he said-
Sueza bint, I like your charming manner.
To walk with you would be my greatest joy.
Your dainty little yashmac, your fingertips so blue
Make me want to dream but it would mean a kiss I’d lose.
Two eyes a-fire, they make me feel a squire.
I’d give my heart if I could call you dear,
But I think I’ll call you ‘Lena’ ‘cause I loved you first at Mena
You’re my little ‘Gypo’ bint, my-------- -------- ----------.
Last word (or words)- rhymes with ‘Dear’
Phonetically, something like ‘twice cut ear.
I know that the whole number is a bit un-P.C., but we’re talking ‘curio value’ here, not moral rectitude, and whilst on that tack, I think we can risk one more nail in the Imperialist coffin, and then we can move on.
At the time of Suez, in a military court, a sergeant was giving evidence.
“On the day in question, I was standing outside the barracks, when a taxi approached, with three Wogs in it”
Harrumphs all round, and the advocate is quietly advised by the president-
“In view of the fact that one of the occupants was ex King Farouk, perhaps your witness would care to rephrase his evidence?” Tip toe- tiptoe- tiptoe
“…mumble mumble Faroukmumble?”
“Mumbleyes-sah!mumblesah!(pause) On the day in question, I was standing outside the barracks, when a taxi approached, with EX KING FAROUK and two other Wogs in it”.
That statement was accepted into evidence, without demur. And folk wonder why, wherever the English go, in the world, there is always a bunch of locals waiting to chuck rocks at them.
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| “…a report has been received…” |
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| “…I regret to inform you…” |