Diaries tell of village life on Hampshire's Home Front

Wickham Square, D-Day (Image: David Warwick) Mrs Warwick was originally from Preston, where her father was a clockmaker.  The early years of her marriage were spent above Wickham’s tiny ironmonger shop devoid of electricity or running water. And, trained as a teacher, she was persuaded to take over the running of the village school when the headmaster retired and no one could be found to take his place. Later she was to recall how some of the children were verminous, having to be sent home with a pink card giving their parents two weeks in which to deal with the matter. On return, there would be an inspection by the district nurse who issued a green card if all was well – “the most disagreeable experience in the whole of my teaching life.”

Came the war, the family consisted of a girl, Mary, who - following in her mother’s footsteps was to become first lady Lord Mayor of London - and three boys. Together they endured seemingly endless hours huddled in the damp cellar listening to the sound of distant bombardment as enemy aircraft droned overhead.  Only eight days during the month of July, 1941 were free of raids. As the village prepared itself for the expected invasion signposts were removed; bridges damaged to impede the enemy advance. Concrete blocks known as “Dragon’s teeth” appeared in strategic places for the same purpose. Tin-hatted air-raid wardens patrolled the streets ensuring that not a chink of light showed through the windows, a target for enemy bombers.

Meanwhile, the Home Guard, under the leadership of Gen Sir Herbert Powell, late commander of the Gurkha Rifles in India, sprang into action. Rehearsals for the expected onslaught took place, often with makeshift weapons. There was watch-keeping by night, for parachutists, spies or unexploded bombs; simulating attacks on one another’s villages.

Home Guard defences (Image: David Warwick) Gradually the tide began to turn until, in 1944, the long-expected invasion of Europe was imminent. No one knew exactly when this would be but expectation was rife. Particularly on March 15th as hundreds of aircraft soared overhead and convoys passed continually through the village. Anticipation rose again five days later when all travel within a ten-mile radius of the coast was banned; once more a few weeks later all buses were requisitioned for the transport of troops. Meanwhile, perplexing yellow signs began to appear painted along roads south. Then on May 15th, all was revealed. Fully loaded tank carriers and military vehicles of every kind arrived, slotting into the places allocated to them by such markings. Troops were encamped in every corner of the village. Finally, on June 6, D-Day itself was announced. The family listened all day on the radio as the roads emptied and gliders streamed overhead. A bridgehead was established. On June 24, Caen and Cherbourg were captured. The largest seaborne landing in history has begun. And, as a council member, Mrs Warwick was one of a few people who knew the whereabouts of coffins stacked up in readiness for those who would never return. But revealed nothing.

For those on the home front D Day was followed almost immediately by its aftermath - the vergeltungwaffen – Hitler’s “revenge weapons”. The first of these were the V1s, the “flying bombs”. Pilotless and the only aircraft they’d seen propelled by jet engines, the “doodle bugs” as they came to be known, coughed their way overhead like badly-serviced motorbikes. Till, with a final splutter the engine cut out. The silence that followed as they plummeted to earth causing destruction wherever they fell was bad enough. Their guidance system, though, was rudimentary so almost as terrifying, never knowing just when that silence would come or where precisely they would fall.

Just as beguiling are Mrs Warwick’s experiences - from 1938 and throughout the war - as the first lady member of the pipe-smoking, snuff-sniffing, Droxford Rural District Council. There were three clergymen, one of whom arrived in a voluminous cloak and broad-brimmed hat. The rest were farmers, members of the local administration and naval personnel. Outlook and attitudes may appear quaint to us today, but they got the job done. Especially the organisation and placement of evacuees, which became her major concern.

Home Guard marching (Image: David Warwick) Some of the new arrivals found the village so quiet and uneventful that they chose to catch the next train home. There were constant quarrels between single mothers billeted together with their babies, all sharing the same kitchen. A little girl arrived at the station possessing nothing but a gasmask, knowing only her name. Mrs Warwick took her in and she became part of the family. As the war ended they were about to adopt her when the grandmother turned up to take her back to Liverpool. Heartbreak all round. Home Front Wickham abounds with such anecdotes, some humourous others harrowing.

The diaries conclude with the coming of peace but Mrs Warwick continued with them for the next thirty years. None could hope to measure the excitement or achievement of the 1938/47 period. Regardless of this and despite everything going on around them, it’s the family that lingers throughout at the heart of the narrative. As the author concludes: “The conflict remains forever louring in the background, modifying and developing the personalities with which we had been born.” Himself included.

Home Front Wickham by David Warwick is published by Crump Barn Studios, available from all bookshops