Well OK, at the behest of Fester, I'll start my story from my birth, which I hope will explain how I came to N.Wales and hence the Gunsite, ( Coast Artillery School ) on the West Side of the Orme, Instalment 1 :-
An Evacuee’s Tale. 1.
I was born in Coventry, just prior to the start of the 2nd. World War. We survived the first series of Luftwaffe Bombing by spending the nights outside the City in an old caravan, returning next morning, so that my father could go back to work as an Aircraft Fitter. But the house next door was badly damaged and ours sustained some damage as well.( I recall as a youngster, that the Piano and Sideboard had hundreds of small marks all over the front, when I asked my parents about them, they told me they were caused by the bomb blast, shattering the windows and embedding the shards into the furniture. )
My first memory was of being taken along what I think, ( due to the crunching sound,) was a gravel pathway There was a large Moon shining and an Owl hooting in the trees. Next I was on what could be described as a Fire Escape or balcony in my mothers arms to listen to the Owl When I described this scene to my mother and asked how old I was, she thought for a while, then said that it must have been when we evacuated from Coventry to Anglesea and stayed for a while in a Hostel and that I was 18 months old.
My father was relocated to work in Saunders Roe, near Beaumaris, to work on Catalinas and Sunderland flying boats. We next went to live in an old Corrugated Iron Cottage on the long straight Rd. into Newborough, next to a lane down to the Warren.
There was a farm next to the lane and they looked after us, supplying eggs, butter,( which I sometimes helped to churn when I got older ) and milk. I remember one day, the farmer’s wife rushing across the lane to get me, and dragging me back across to the hen house, to watch a chick hatching out of the shell.
My father started to grow some vegetables, one day I asked to go out and watch him digging in the garden, whilst he was using the spade I thought that I could help with a fork that was sticking upright in the ground. I managed to drag it out and then plunged it back down into the ground, straight through my right foot, I still have the scar, fortunately it went between my toes without doing any damage. Strangely I’ve never been keen on gardening ever since.
It was about this time that dad went hunting / poaching, with his .22 Rifle or 12 Bore shotgun, for rabbits, pigeons, ducks, pheasants etc. I some times accompanied him, with the strict understanding that I stayed behind him and kept quiet. We disturbed a rabbit one day and it made it’s escape by swimming across a large pond, where we were unable to follow. I never knew rabbits could swim, but I suppose when needs must