This is a strange
little story and I have no idea if there is any truth to
it but I like to think there is. I have placed it on paper
as I remember it being told to me, Christmas after Christmas,
after Christmas.
1943.
It was December 22nd and I have been told that, that winter
was indeed very cold and Christmas was white, just like
on the postcards. The 22nd was a Wednesday, meaning that
Christmas Eve would fall on a Friday, perfect for having
Christmas Day and Boxing Day on the weekend. Our home ‘South
Hanger’ was, apart from a housekeeper and her husband, empty;
my parents both being in uniform and away ‘doing hero stuff’,
somewhere or other. This meant that the ‘Long Dining Room’
would host no party this Christmas Eve. However, this 22nd
was to see a village get together at St Agatha’s Hall which
was between Oxted and Hurst Green and had (until the cinema
opened) for centuries been the hub of village social life.
It’s still there today, the same old white washed building
with its funny slate roof and I have been told that there
is still a dance there every Saturday night, only now it’s
for senior citizens, not youth, £5 and an all you
can eat buffet, pensioners on a card £2.10. 1943 had
seen the start of a new optimism across the land, that’s
why it had been decided to have a good Christmas dance.
The snow had stopped falling mid morning and by early afternoon
a soft winter sun glistened off the white eiderdown that
covered just about everything. The clearer weather also
saw the bomber and fighter squadrons claw their way into
the air, never a second was wasted in giving back all that
had been received ... with interest. Wings shone against a
pale duck egg blue sky, engines seemed muffled by the chill
air as planes climbed to join others already overhead and
on their way, their presence signified by hundreds of white
contrails that appeared as white slashes against the blue.
This far south most of the bombers and fighters were British,
the American squadrons were mainly a bit further north but
a few of them shared the southern Brit aerodromes.
By this time of the war there were fewer dogfights or German
bombers overhead although they still liked to pop in for
a chat from time to time ... but now it was more Allies heading
east.
The village itself was rather bare of men as, by this time,
just about all males (and many females) between the ages
of 18 and 40 were away. Those that remained had probably
failed the medical for some reason or worked in a reserved
occupation. However, even age couldn’t stop some of them
and the village and surrounds were in the safe hands of
the ‘Home Guard’ known as Dad’s Army. At times people, who
knew no better, had a chuckle at the old guys but the reality
of the situation was that, although invasion was no longer
an immediate fear, the men of "Dads Army" still
did a lot of work in rounding up downed airmen and heaven
help any German aircrew that gave them any cheek, these
guys were far too old to put up with any guff. One problem
was that the free Poles flying for the RAF had a few problems
if they had to bailout of their fighters. The Home Guard
and a few of the women off the farms had problems telling
the difference between Germans and Poles and more than one
was treed by an angry farmer’s wife with a pitchfork.
OK, back to the story. It was about 4pm and a very young
Mavis Wolton (A Reason and a Ramble) had already assisted
Mr. Blythwell from the Carpenters Arms to transport a lot
of drink from the pub to ‘Aggies’. No pub had enough drink
for a party in 1943, so the supply was supplemented by the
pub’s own home brew (strictly illegal but Bert Bonney the
village copper was suddenly very blind to this infringement).
Ladies from the ‘Green Jug Tearooms’, had spent the previous
night baking cakes and pastries, the ingredients having
been hoarded for over a month, everybody had saved one ration
coupon to help fill the larder with flour, sugar, raisins,
jam etc all the stuff needed to make the sort of fancy stuff
that the people of Britain hadn’t seen for close to four
years.
It was the same with Mr. Pitt the butcher he had provided,
meat pies, sausage rolls, egg & bacon pie and sausages
(best not to ask what was in them) fit for the table of
a king. Local ladies had provided jelly, blancmange and
the largest trifle the world had ever seen. Even this treasure
trove would not fill all the stomachs in the hall, so dozens
of eggs (one of the perks of living in the country) were
being hardboiled and these would be served with bread and
dripping (there was little or no butter) as ‘fillers’.
Ladies from surrounding farms had provided the decorations,
no fancy stuff for this night, rather it was holly, ivy
and mistletoe, with a few lanterns scattered around for
effect.
OK, I know what you are thinking, what a very dull affair
it sounds, well, I guess that in this day and age it would
appear that way. However, in 1943, people were simply ...
tired, too many nights listening to the enemy overhead,
too many days just trying to survive on very little food,
too many hours in anguish dreading the arrival of the post
office boy on his bicycle, telegram in hand - and at the
same time they had to try and hold the whole fabric of their
little world together, to give order to that that couldn’t
be ordered. Yes, a low key affair it probably was but to
those folks it was a ‘wonderfully, grand occasion’.
The doors opened at 6pm and people started to file in,
music began although it was too early to yet dance, and
folks just mingled in the warmth from the two braziers and
enjoyed a nibble or two. Beer for the men and rather dubious
gin for the ladies, however, mixed with homemade lemonade
it didn’t taste too bad and did have the kick of a mega
elephant.
Outside the snow was again lightly falling and with no wind,
it just drifted down like feathers from a quilt. With the
clouds again ruling the sky there was no moon or stars and
it was dark, very dark, like being in a huge room without
windows or doors. All that could be seen was ... nothing,
even Aggies from outside was lost in the night as blackout
curtains hung over all windows and doors. It was really
quite eerie, you could be only a foot away from the hall
and not see it - then take a step through the curtain and
door and you were in a cheery place, with warmth, music
and laughter.
It was close to 7.30pm when somebody arriving a bit late
rushed in and yelled for everybody to "Come outside, there’s
a plane coming down", lights were dimmed and people went
out into the cold. Sure enough flames in the sky indicated
that a plane was indeed in trouble and limping home and
it was too big for a fighter, this was a bomber ... a big
one.
The flames made a slow arc above the sleepy villages, getting
lower and lower until they vanished. There was no sound
of a crash, it was just that bit too far away, but above
the trees, in the distance, flames briefly shot high into
the air and then vanished. Mr. Drenly from the small railway
station rushed away on his bike to call the home guard from
the local public phone box, which was only about a quarter
of a mile away and the others filed back into the hall and
went on with their festivities. It wasn’t that they were
being unkind or unfeeling; it was just that they had all
seen this sort of stuff a hundred times and had learned
how to block out their emotions, this was ‘their night’
and it had been four years in the making.
It was close to 9.00pm when a Home Guard truck drew up
at the hall. In the back were eight US airmen from the bomber
that had just crash landed. They had been picked up waiting
at the side of the road and it was thought that, as they
couldn’t be sent back to their airfield until morning, they
might as well join in the fun. They were disheveled and
worn looking which was to be expected but the main problem
was that their young radio operator was missing, he had
tried to bail out but nobody actually saw him go. The Home
Guard truck and driver (well, actually he was the Fishmonger
and only put on the uniform of an evening) took off for
Oxted police station to put out the word about the missing
radio operator. The remaining eight joined the others in
the hall.
Out of politeness they didn’t seem to eat or drink much,
probably knowing how scarce food was these days, but they
chatted and danced with the locals and all had a great time.
I guess it would have been strange for them; one minute
trying to bring a crippled B17 back to base and the next,
dancing and chatting with a bunch of aging country bumpkins.
Still, it was Christmas and one had to be a good ambassador
for the home country. The beer and gin started to take its
toll on the villagers and farmers, it had been a long time
since their last big get together and alcohol, except in
small doses, had become foreign to their systems.
Everybody seems a bit unclear as to how the night ended,
because things got a bit strange and a great slurping of
alcohol didn’t help matters. What is know is that about
0300 the Home Guard truck returned and picked up the eight
airman, they left with a few cheery waves and goodbyes.
Then, at about 0400, when only a few remained, clearing
up the mess and sleeping off the grog, a regular army truck
arrived to pick up the airmen. As you can imagine the driver
was a bit miffed at finding out his Christmas journey had
been for nothing and that the Home Guard had taken the airmen
away. However, a few glasses of home brew helped to soften
his mood and then he drove away.
At around 9am the next morning Bert Bonney the village
copper got a phone call from the main station in Oxted to
say that the young radio operator, apart from a sprained
ankle, had been picked up alive and well and was on his
way back to the aerodrome. Then the Oxted policeman said
something that got Bert a bit confused, he said "Shame about
Mr. Sharpe (the fishmonger that drove the home guard truck),
it was an aerial mine. It must have got him at around 10pm".
"That can’t be right", Bert replied, "He picked up the airmen
after midnight".
"What airmen"?
"The ones from the bomber, Sharpie picked them up and brought
them to Aggies at 9 o’clock".
From the Oxted constable there was a snort ‘Don’t be daft
man; the team was out at the crash site at 7am to gather
any documents and codebooks. The plane didn’t crash land
it went straight in’ and apart from the radio operator what
was left of the others was still in the plane".
Bert slowly hung up the phone. Mr Sharpe HAD brought the
airmen to Aggies, he had found them waiting on the roadside.
Then at around 0300 when he had supposedly been dead for
five hours, he returned to the hall and picked up eight
airmen who couldn’t have been there anyway because they
were also dead.
As I said at the beginning, I have no idea if this story
is true or not but my dad told me years later that all the
times and general facts seemed to have been in order. So,
to the big question, "Did the ghosts of eight US airmen
attend a Christmas dance in a small English village hall
on a dark night in December 1943? Did the ghost of the Home
Guard driver drive an equally ghostly truck back to the
hall to pick them up hours later?
Your guess is as good as mine my friends, your guess is
as good as mine.
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