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What an exciting time to be alive. The sixth of June nineteen forty four had been a truly momentous day. The invasion of Europe had begun. Although we did not know the full story, we did know, as Mr Churchill had said, it was the beginning of the end.
A bloody beginning to be sure. Of course we did not know about the terrible loss of life for our troops. Only that they had been successful. Hitler’s hordes, according to our media, were on the run.
However, according to the German propaganda, as supplied nightly by a renegade Englishman we called Lord Haw Haw, the allies were being slaughtered in vast numbers and the Germans were about to invade Great Britain.
Not that we believed a word this man said. If he had realized that we listened to him every night because he made us laugh I doubt he would have been pleased.
The country appeared to have been overrun by men of many nations, some, like the Americans, Canadians, New Zealanders and Australians, spoke English, maybe a little outlandish English, but in the main we understood them. The Americans in general tended to be the loudest, always seeming to shout and make extravagant gestures. They appeared so strange to us, who were more used to the typical English Reserve.
Other soldiers spoke in languages strange to us; these were mostly from the continent of Europe, countries that had been captured by the Germans.
The Americans we knew where all millionaires. They had everything, and they were also very generous. If asked for chewing gum, as we kids did, (a very desirable commodity, one that we had never heard of before the coming of the ‘Yanks’ as they were called).
They would invariably give you a whole carton. Such was their generosity. Unfortunately, human nature being as it is, this was not liked by a lot of the grown-ups, mostly the men.
They had an expression about the American soldiers. They said that they were over paid, over sexed and over here.
I think there was more that a touch of jealousy in this. However, there was also a deal of truth in it as well.
Lots of the local women were bowled over by the glamorous uniforms and the money.
In those days ladies stockings were none existent. Many women used something called leg-tan, it was supposed to look like silk stockings. I remember my mother using it; she would apply the tan, then she would have her friend draw a line up her calf using a black pencil, as if it were the seam of the stocking.
If leg-tan were in short supply they would use gravy browning. This was ok unless they were caught in the rain, then the gravy browning would wash off. The rain would leave clear streaks down their legs. Us kids thought it hilarious.
You can imagine the result when an American soldier would wave a pack of silk stockings under a woman’s nose. Anything he wanted was his, and they had lots of wants and lots of stockings.
They also had lots of food; there was a mysterious and exotic place that all these wonderful things came from.
Us kids did not know what it was; just something called a P.X. We knew it must have been the equivalent of Aladdin’s cave.
In those days there was a local dance hall, a quiet sort of place where tea dances were the norm.
That was before the arrival of our American cousins.
Their idea of dancing was not waltzes and foxtrots, cucumber sandwiches with the crust removed. Their dancing was loud and energetic.
It did not sit well with the usual dance crowd.
Alcohol was not allowed in the dance hall. But across the road from it there was a public house. That would be the first port of call for the soldiers. After they had taken on board some ‘Dutch Courage’ they would go to the dance.
At first everything would be fine. Then after a while when the booze took effect, the trouble would start.
Mostly it would begin because one of the women would dance with a black American. This was fine with the English, but not so with the white Americans. One would object, then all hell would break loose.
The English could not understand this, not being particularly racial, but would join in the fighting anyway. Liverpool people have always liked a good brawl.
The fighting would invariably spill out into the street, us kids would watch from a safe distance, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.
Usually, our local Bobby would join us. He was no fool. He knew that the heavy mob from the Liverpool police would arrive from one direction and the American military police from the other.
The military police were usually huge men with white helmets; they were called ‘Snowdrops’, and a more inappropriate name I could not imagine.
The military police showed no mercy to their own men. They left any English to our own police; they didn’t have any mercy either. We could hear the truncheons cracking heads and see the blood flowing very freely.
Occasionally there would be a stabbing or more rarely a shooting; this was real excitement for us. However the policemen sorted it out and peace returned
Much to our disappointment.
Life went on as usual, school, shopping for your mum, and mischief, lots of mischief.
We hated shopping. It was never a case of walking into a shop and buying what you needed. It was always a case of queuing; we queued for everything, sometimes for hours.
Word would spread, like by some sort of grapevine, that a shop had just had a delivery of whatever. It may have been potatoes or bread, in fact any of the food that made up our diet in those days.
It was infuriating, no matter how fast we ran to the shop, there would already be a queue of people.
I well recall standing in a queue, I think it was for potatoes. A little further ahead of me in the queue was a man. These days he would be classed as mentally challenged, or whatever the PC way is of saying it.
In those days he was just a dirty unkempt man, who stank most vilely. Not just of body odour, but he was obviously incontinent.
It was a warm day, so you can imagine the scene.
I suppose people were pretty hard in those days. A woman in front asked her friend to save her spot in the queue. Then went into another shop, she returned with a large bottle of disinfectant, I think it was called Lysol, whatever it was it was pungent.
She proceeded to pour most of the contents of the bottle over the smelly man. He was not best pleased.
He stormed off after a few choice words.
The woman received a round of applause from the rest of the people in the queue. Then everyone moved up a place. Hard times breed hard people I suppose.
The downside to this tale is that the shop ran out of potatoes before my turn came.
My mother was not amused; she accused me of not getting to the shop fast enough and emphasizing her point with a smack on my ear.
This was soon forgotten as my chores for the day were done. I was free to play.
Free to get ready for one of our many gang fights that had been arranged for that afternoon.
Life was great.
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