Days later, I was leaning over the balcony, deep in thought and looking down at the square when I saw a figure coming into the housing estate in a boiler suit and a sailor hat. As it loomed larger, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was George! My George! He was alive. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I could hear my mother washing up in the kitchen and shouted to her, ‘Quick, Mum, it’s our George. He’s alive!’
Mum rushed out, disbelieving me, but wiping her hands on her apron as she joined me to look over the balcony into the square. ‘Georgie!’ she cried out.
George, a big grin on his face, waved his arm cheerfully and my mother rushed along the balcony to the top of the stairs to greet him. She hugged him and cried with joy. The old man got out the hard stuff and that night it was down to the local Portland Arms for a good session.
George told us the story of how his ship had struck a mine and went down in four minutes. He had just finished his duty watch in the stoke hole. The ship had capsized and he crawled out hand over fist, upside down along an escape ladder and jumped into the North Sea. He’d managed to get into a life raft, but had to go back in the water again to make way for a petty officer with an injured back. He was in the water for two hours before they were rescued by HMS Elgin, another minesweeper, and taken to Great Yarmouth. All his possessions were lost and he and the other seamen were given fresh clothes and two weeks’ compassionate leave. But they were recalled after only a week because they were concerned they might leg it, so they sent him off to Mombasa, East Africa, on the Stirling Castle troop carrier. While he was out there, George joined the cruiser HMS Mauritius. It was a notorious ship. They had more arrests on that ship than on any other in the British fleet, because of disquiet onboard. The crew of the Mauritius were in the thick of the action for 18 months during the invasion of North Africa, Sicily, Italy and the Greek islands, having just one break of leave in Malta, so they had the right hump. The crew were also unhappy with the ship’s number one over an incident that occurred during a swimming break off the coats of Italy. Many of the crew were allowed overboard to have a swim, but, when German bombers attacked and the alarms raised, the captain simply took off, to become a moving target. The men had to swim like Tarzan to reach the rope ladders in time! When my George eventually arrived home on leave it was the first time he’d laid his eyes on Georgina his baby daughter, who was 18 months old.
A book could be written about my brother Herbie, who fought in 11 different countries for King and Country and escaped death on a number of occasions. He was one of only 22 of his battalion of 600 to survive a drop into Arnhem, an event that inspired the movie A Bridge Too Far. To any folk who have served their country, Herbie’s records from the Ministry of Defence are nothing short of tremendous. From 1939, he fought for the Parachute Battalion and in countries from North Africa, to India to Singapore, winning a host of medals. Sadly, he passed away last year, but I will always remember his smiley little face. When Herbie met Prince Charles on the commemoration of Arnhem in Holland, he instantly recognised him because he was so small. ’Erbie was five-foot five – and I’m giving him an inch there. Charles looked at his medals and said, ‘You got about a bit!’ and ’Erbie replied, ‘I must have been a hard target to hit!’
As I said, we’re a fighting family, the Foremans. George himself was awarded six campaign stars, clasps and medals during his service, including the Atlantic Star, Africa Star, Italy Star and the War Medal 1939–45. I’m so very proud of all of my brothers. I’m afraid there is simply not room enough in this chapter for me to list their military achievements and bravery in full.
Whenever the boys returned home, we kept an open house to whoever was a friend of theirs. They would come to Mum’s and stay on their short home leave. When friends of my brothers came on leave to stay with us, I would lead them to the local pub during blackouts. I knew my way there blindfolded. One was Bertie Chapman, a pal of George’s who would end up working for the Inland Revenue – and chasing me for tax evasion!
One inevitable problem arising from the war was the amount of armoury entering the country. My brother Herbie brought home Lee Enfield bolt-action .303 rifles, and his mates would bring back pistols and knives as souvenirs. My brothers presented me with German bayonets and daggers, which I proudly showed to my friends. Herbie and Wally, both paratroopers in the First Airborne Division, had access to all kinds of weapons, including knuckle-dusters. They even had dyed-blue wooden bullets, which had been used to save on metal. Everywhere you went in the less gentrified areas of London, metal railings had been pulled out to help the war effort – though the middle and upper classes living in areas such as Belgravia and Knightsbridge were spared this inconvenience. Schooling was regularly interrupted by bombing raids too.
The bombsites around us were ideal for fighting. All around were tunnels and wasteland, where mock battles would be fought. Fireworks represented live ammunition, although, on some days, real bullets were used. I broke into a shed next to the temporary school and nicked all the smoke bombs and crackers belonging to the army and let them off in the girls’ lavatory. The school notified the police and three of us responsible for this outrage were dragged to the front of assembly and given a terrible dressing down by the headmistress. ‘You are nothing but Nazi children! Hitler’s children! Nazi youth!’ she told us venomously.
This was too much. I protested, ‘I’ve got four brothers fighting the Germans. I’m not a Nazi!’
One of the problems with school was that, by the time I was 14, and showing an interest in learning and developed a thirst for knowledge, it was time to leave. But, even so, they could have encouraged my natural ability in art, the only subject in which I excelled.
My art reflected my environment. I drew battle scenes, tanks, artillery, aircraft and scenes of carnage. I had an artist’s eye for detail: I could tell a Wellington bomber from a Lancaster, a Hurricane from a Spitfire, a Heinkel from a Messerschmitt and could identify enemy tanks. I drew gory fights in which death came at the point of a bayonet or a bullet.
Those images were true to life. I was getting the violence down on paper. My reputation began to spread. Schoolkids went out of their way to see what I had drawn and offered to swap their comics for my art. I started to take this further and drew my own action comics. This led to a fight between two pupils who argued over what I was drawing one day.
One of the kids punched the other in the face, and a pencil he was holding went right through the victim’s rosy cheek. I got the blame for that and it alerted the teacher to my art. He took my drawing and examined it in detail. I probably had about a hundred figures on it: Germans and British troops, action scenes involving tanks and aircraft, buildings being blown up, barbed wire, killings. A lot of work had gone into it. The teacher summoned his colleagues and examined it, showing a lot of interest. I thought I’d get just one word of praise, but no, instead they said, ‘This is one sick little bastard.’
But it was a comment on the times. There were always guns in the house, German Lugers, old service revolvers, Japanese swords, crudely made scabbards and Arab daggers. I used to love playing with them.
In spite of my bad school record, I had a grudging respect for Mr Nye, even though he regularly beat me with the cane. He had a withered arm and had this amazing robotic capacity to administer six of the best while speaking to the rest of the class at the same time. Unlike other teachers, however, he would pay me compliments for my sporting abilities. I won all the races at school and he would tell everyone, ‘That boy’s got shoulders on him like a horse.’
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