Early Memories Of Hay During The Second World War Part 1

A Memory of Hay-on-Wye.

Memories of Hay during the Second World War.

When I was still quite young, I recall that there were three phrases used by my father over and over again in conversation. The first, tellingly, were those remarks, usually making contrasts of some kind, beginning "Of course, before the war". And then post-1945 there was the obvious "During the war". And finally there was, with contrasts doubtless still in mind, "After the war". What is obvious is that for people of his generation the Second World War was the great watershed of the century, bringing cataclysmic changes that even impinged on small towns like Hay. And I suppose it is fair to say that two of those phrases were used to contrast the present (usually unfavourably!) with distinct former periods of personal history, years when the speaker was younger and when local society was supposedly more cohesive (the 'war-effort' etc.). Little wonder that social historians of the twentieth century may now describe the revolutionary effect that the Second World War had upon UK society, loosening bonds of kinship, of place, of rank, of loyalty, etc.

Others have written about the bombs or incendiaries that fell close to Hay. One such was an explosion at a small-holding on the foot of the Black Mountains below Hay Bluff. I think that the event was in reality near a property known as 'Coch-y-lofty'. The local view was reportedly that the explosion had scared the wits out of its lone inhabitant - was it a Miss Phillips? This real incident and similar ones too from the Hay area were drawn upon by Bruce Chatwin in his novel 'On the Black Hill'. A second bombing incident near Hay also brought destruction and no little excitement. I do recall a family walk one Sunday afternoon to Llan-y-coed-lan Farm, behind Mouse Castle, where bombs had fallen in the farmyard, killed some cows, damaged farm sheds, etc. I was fed the line that these stray bombs were dumped by enemy bombers trying to lighten their loads on the way back from raids on Swansea. There was one other bombing alarm, when a bomb of some sort landed in Llanigon Churchyard west of Hay, though it may not have exploded.

An aunt of mine living at 29 Castle Street was a member of the ARP ('Air Raid Precaution', I think, maybe 'Air Raid Patrol'); her helmet and dark cape hanging on a rack near the door was an object of fascination for this youngster even in post-war years. All houses were subject to the black-out after sundown, with windows and doors requiring heavy curtaining to avoid - fantastic as this may seem today - indicating to enemy bombers that there were human habitations below.

Many children will recall Sgt. Bassett of the Hay constabulary who had a reputation for knocking on doors and admonishing those within to "Put out that light!". A tall, thin man, Sgt. Bassett may have had a rare lighter side to him. A few years after the war when I was newly possessed of a two-wheel bicycle, Bassett stopped me and asked in a gruff voice: "Do you always ride on the right side of the road?". I'm sure I must have tremblingly mumbled something in the affirmative. To which he remarked laconically "Well, you should ride on the left!". That was probably as close to a public sense of humour as he ever got.

During the war not only were houses subject to restricted light emission, but also motor cars and motor-bikes had been fitted with hoods that forced the beam downwards and prevented any escape of light upwards. Of course, one tends to forget that piston-powered aeroplanes travelled at a low altitude relative to modern jets, so just maybe the 'blackout' had a justification. In later life, I once had a former Luftwaffe pilot as a neighbour (Otto Kreuger)- eventually he had been shot down over Chelmsford (Essex) and taken prisoner; Otto customarily remarked that he was rarely higher than 12,000ft (4,000m). Little wonder that my Hay parents and relatives used to speak of listening to the drone of German bombers passing slowly overhead - usually one imagines after the air-raid warning had sounded. At least Hay was well beyond the range of V1 and V2 rockets.

One war-time memory was of the air-raid shelter in the garden adjacent to the house. I understand all householders were encouraged to build them. At 'Wayside' in Forest Road, the rudimentary shelter became a play-area for several years afterwards; it was accessed down steep, earthen steps to an area little more than about 7 feet [2.1m] by 5 feet [1.5m], and maybe 5 feet high. It was primitively constructed of roughly finished wooden planks along the sides and forming the roof, leaving an open entrance; and on that roof there had been piled perhaps 2 feet of soil. As a defence against a direct hit it would have been wholly inadequate, but the shelter would probably have helped against indirect blasts from explosive bombs and from incendiaries. Happily, my parents' construct was never put to the either test.

Beyond that, my only personal encounter with the materials of war was being issued with a gas-mask in primary school (the British School in Heol-y-dwr). There were subsequent drills for donning the gas-mask, a forbidding-looking object that seemed likely to induce suffocation. I assume that one trigger for putting drills into practice may have been an air-raid warning sounding from atop the roof of the Fire-Station then in Castle Street; everyone, including children, must have been able then to distinguish between the warning itself, a loud ululating blast, and the 'All Clear'. To this day, these sounds in films, TV dramas (think 'Dad's Army') or documentaries about the period can still stir my early memories of Hay.

(To be continued in Part Two)

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