Vivid VE Day memories from a Slinfold farmer’s son

His father Jack was a farmer, at Furze Copse Farm, and Patrick was a small boy, not yet four. He and his two brothers have pieced together their memories of the Second World War and VE Day.

Patrick said: “To mark the occasion, Slinfold came to life in an unforgettable riot of noise and colour. There was bunting everywhere, a huge table set for a feast in front of the village pub, brass band and marching troops.

“Highlight of the procession was a pony and carriage in which three small boys rode proudly beside each other, each in the uniform of one of the armed services.

“One of those boys was my elder brother Richard, then nearly six, and happily we’ve been able to compare notes in recalling these events, helped by younger brother John.

“Why Richard was selected to represent the navy is debateable but there he was in the dress of a naval rating carefully designed to fit his diminutive figure. Not even a cloudburst in the middle of the parade could douse the spirits of the assembled throng, or of the excited children in the roofless carriage.

“I was insanely jealous to see Richard there, hogging the limelight while I, a mere spectator, watched with the rest of my family. At least there was no room to squabble on the day and we had yet to refine our combat skills

“Plans for the parade had been made weeks, if not months, before, when a neighbour of ours, with the procession in mind, had invited my mother to design the uniform for her eldest son.

“A retired naval captain, he lived alone in a grand mansion on the other side of our farm. In our collective memory, he was a rather intimidating figure who wore a glove permanently on one hand to conceal a serious injury. Having accidentally sliced off several fingers with a saw, so the story goes, he put them in a bag and drove himself five miles to Horsham Hospital to get them sown back on.

“As a busy farmer’s wife with three young children, my mother set to work in the lengthening evenings of 1945, aided by the neighbour himself. While my brothers and I dozed upstairs, we could hear them talking softly below as the uniform took shape and the war drew slowly to an end.”

With her growing family, Patrick’s mother, Peg, had faced many challenges in those difficult years - the unexpected arrival of evacuees from London’s East End in the early part of the war, the loss in 1943 of her younger brother, a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm, and shortly afterwards, the death of her much-loved mother.

Patrick said: “No wonder she valued a quiet chat with a sympathetic neighbour as she cut and stitched the uniform and waited for the war to end. What my father thought of these occasions, or whether he was even aware of them, we’ll never know. But perhaps it’s how my brother got chosen to ride in the procession, resplendent in the colours of the Royal Navy.”

Patrick’s father was exempt from conscription, being a farmer, but he was keen to do his bit for the war effort, so, he signed up as a volunteer in the Royal Observer Corps. His job was to spot approaching enemy aircraft and report their positions for the RAF.

Patrick said: “He enjoyed the job and would take his turn, at the end of a long day on the farm, to spend most of the night at the nearest Observation Post in Billingshurst. By the end of the war, he claimed he could identify every aircraft by the sound of its engines alone.

“Some of the other volunteers were fellow farmers so the duties were convivial, especially when the enemy declined to appear, as they often did.

“Not surprisingly, the famous comedy series Dad’s Army became a favourite of my father in his later life.”

The VE Day parade left everyone soaked to the skin and when it was over, Patrick’s father drove at speed to get them home quickly. Disaster struck as they hit a huge puddle and the engine stalled.

Patrick said: “Cue some colourful expletives from the exasperated driver as he repaired the electrical connections and cranked the engine back to life.

“Safely home, we all dried out and two of us were put to bed while my father and Richard went back for the final part of the day’s proceedings.

“A huge bonfire had been built beside the railway line, topped with an effigy of Hitler. As the two of them arrived on the scene, they were greeted by the sight of flaming torches processing to the site and igniting the blaze as darkness fell.

“I have other vivid memories of those times. Our home was on an exposed hill above the village. To the south, we could see as far as Chanctonbury Ring and a sweep of the South Downs; to the north, the village itself, with Leith Hill and the North Downs beyond.

“Over these rolling hills and the expanse of the Weald, the skies had been alive with the sight and sound of aircraft during the later years of the war. For a small boy like me, nothing could have been more exciting. I would stand in our garden gaping in wonder as squadrons of American bombers roared overhead on their way to a mission in Germany. The noise was deafening, and the windows of our house would shake.

“On one occasion, I watched smoke trails in the sky as Spitfires or Hurricanes sought to destroy a fleeing German bomber. At least I think that’s what I saw. Too young to comprehend at the time, I may be confusing my own experience with stories I was later told, imprinted as an image in my mind.”

One night, around this time, Patrick was woken suddenly by his mother, who whispered anxiously to him to not wake his sleeping younger brother as she urged him to quickly go to look at something.

Patrick said: “I crept out of bed and found my parents and older brother at the landing window facing north towards Leith Hill. The horizon was ablaze with rockets and searchlights, sweeping right and left.

“Important as they had been as a protective ring around London, now they could trace a V for Victory sign in the sky and signal the start of celebrations for a weary nation. It was an astonishing display which left an indelible impression on this excited child.

“Back to 2020. Different times, such different circumstances. They hardly bear comparison, but how we would have relished some of that colour and spectacle in our Twickenham street a few days ago. And I can picture the delight of my grandchildren, after many weeks in ‘lockdown’, as they proudly take their seats behind the pony and a noisy brass band.”

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