The Balaclava Brigade

By Roland Bond

10 year old Tommy Dennis is evacuated during the early part of WWII from his home in the city to a small, rural coal-mining village. There he joins a gang of adventurous friends who call themselves the Balaclava Brigade. This group of young boys get into all sorts of humorous and suspenseful situations, and there is a mystery that runs throughout the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 19, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467017251

Roland Bond

Roland Bond is a retired teacher who spent thirty-five years working in secondary and primary schools. He was Head of English in a boys’ secondary school before switching to work with primary children. For twenty-one years, he was Head Teacher of a large suburban junior and infant school. He is also the author of The Balaclava Brigade and The Balaclava Brigade Victorious, two humorous children’s novels that are loosely based upon his own experiences as a World War II child evacuee. For many years, he has lived in Solihull in the West Midlands.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A Stranger in our Midst

Hey, someone’s coming, Jimmy whispered as he peered up the road into the deepening gloom.

I listened to the uneven clip clop of the approaching footsteps on the pavement.

The way that person’s walking is really funny, I observed.

Georgie, Jimmy’s elder brother, bit into a huge wedge of his mum’s homemade cake.

Who do you reckon it is? he asked, his mouth full of crumbs.

I don’t know, I replied half-heartedly, for I was feeling very hungry, and at that particular moment I was far more interested in Georgie’s piece of cake.

The three of us were sitting on top of a brick wall, facing the main road which ran through the middle of our village. The evening light of a glorious late summer’s day had faded rapidly and dusk had fallen. For some time the darkening village scene had been silent, empty and still, but the air remained warm and gentle upon our faces. I watched longingly as the last morsel of Georgie’s cake disappeared into his mouth, and then I glanced up the road. Coming towards us was a dark, indistinct figure.

As the moving shape drew nearer, it crossed to the other side of the street. I had the impression that it was a tall, slim man wearing a trilby hat and a long, dark overcoat. In his left hand he was carrying a large suitcase. He was stooping forward as he walked, his head bowed, the collar of his coat turned up, and his eyes fixed upon the pavement in front of him. He was scurrying along as if he was in a hurry. But the most noticeable thing about him was his peculiar gait. His head bobbed up and down as he walked, and he had the pronounced limp of someone who had injured a foot or an ankle.

Georgie, Jimmy and I remained absolutely silent, our eyes following that shadowy figure as he hurried by on the other side. After he had disappeared from view we continued to peer into the darkness, listening to his footsteps echoing unevenly as one foot struck the pavement more heavily than the other.

He’s not from round here, mumbled Georgie indistinctly, his mouth full of cake.

Nobody round here wears that kind of hat, confirmed his brother All the blokes round Stretton wear flat caps.

Yeah, I didn’t recognise that chap at all, I added.

That person was definitely a complete stranger, for none of us had ever seen him before. The presence of this strange man was unusual because our village was very small and it was wartime. Since the start of the war we had never seen strangers walking around Stretton. Unfortunately we had not been able to have a good look at this person in the darkness, for there were no street lamps alight. It was August 1940, Britain was at war with Germany, and there was a strict black-out across the entire country. At night it was an offence for anyone to shine lights after dark in case German aircrews flying overhead saw them and dropped their bombs, thinking that there was an important target below. Each window in every house and cottage was furnished with thick black-out curtains, so that not even the smallest chink of light was allowed to escape.

My name is Tommy Dennis, and I was 10 years old at the time. Shortly after war had broken out I had been evacuated away from my home in the city, where the danger from the German bombers was greatest. My mum and dad had said that I would be safe from Hitler’s bombs living in the countryside, so I had been sent to live in the quiet little Midland mining village of Stretton-on-the-Hill.

I wonder where that chap’s going so late at night? asked Jimmy, staring down the road into the blackness.

I didn’t like the look of him, I admitted uneasily. I wonder what he’d got in that case he was carrying.

Georgie licked his lips and wiped them on the sleeve of his jumper.

Yeah, I’d love to know who he is and what he’s doing round here, he mumbled.

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Georgie Millward was the same age as me, and he was my best friend in Stretton. He and his brother Jimmy lived in the cottage next door to me. Georgie and I always went around together, and his mum said that we were inseparable like a pair of twins. He was a very kind, generous, good-natured boy. Unfortunately his great weakness was food. He loved food, any kind of food. Although it was wartime and many foods were either rationed or in short supply, Georgie always seemed to be eating. Consequently he tended to be a little on the podgy side.

Eight year old Jimmy was very different. He was small and thin, giving the impression that he was underfed. Despite his appearance, he was a wiry, determined and plucky little lad. Before the war, he had been knocked down by a car on the main road and his right leg had been badly injured. He could no longer bend his knee properly, but this did not stop him from running and playing football like the rest of us, although when doing so he was forced to run with a hop and a skip, trailing his one leg behind him. Jimmy was wearing his favourite multi-coloured, striped jumper which his mum had knitted, using odd balls of wool that she had left over.

We’ll have to keep a look out for that chap with the limp, I announced, for I was still more than a little anxious about his sudden appearance.

I’ve been thinking, said Georgie. He might be one of those blokes that they’ve sent to work down the pit because he refused to join the army to fight against Hitler’s lot. Our dad says they’re called ‘conchies’.

I had never heard that expression before.

Jimmy butted in. Our dad says they’ve got a couple of conchies working down Stretton pit.

Who are they then? I asked.

Dad reckons that most of them are posh chaps, Georgie explained. Some of them have been to college. There’s one of them working on our dad’s shift. He’s a young bloke who reckons that it’s wrong to fight. When he said he wouldn’t go into the army they sent him to work down the pit.

But there aren’t any conchies living here in Stretton, are there? I inquired.

No, Georgie answered. I don’t know of any.

So, even if he is one of those conchies, what’s he doing wandering around our village after dark? I murmured. And why was he carrying that big case?

A shrill, high-pitched voice came drifting towards us out of the darkness.

Georgie! Jimmy!

That’s our mum calling us. We’ll have to go in now, Georgie sighed, turning and looking at me.

He jumped down from the wall with a thud and Jimmy followed him. They both ran up the road, their footsteps resounding in the still, pitch-black night air.

See you in the morning!

Georgie’s voice came floating out of the inky blackness, and I heard a metallic click as he unfastened the latch on his front gate.

I sat alone on the wall and the unlit village street seemed eerily quiet and deserted. I thought about my mum and dad at home in the city. Would they be alright? I was very anxious about them because I knew that they would be in grave danger when the German bombers flew over to attack the factories near our home.

Suddenly my thoughts of home were disturbed. Across the road a door rattled open, and I could hear several loud voices. A group of men emerged from the bar of the ‘Miner’s Arms’ directly opposite, and from the amount of noise they were making, they seemed to be in very good spirits. One of them lurched across the road and tottered past the wall where I was sitting. He paused in front of me, leaned forward unsteadily and peered into my face. A strong smell of beer enveloped me.

Are you alright, lad? he asked in a friendly, concerned manner. Ain’t it time you was in bed?

It was Albert Griffin, an elderly miner who was going to his home in the same row of cottages where many of my friends lived.

I’m O.K. I replied. I was just about to go home.

They’ll be wondering what’s happened to you, lad, he remarked, as he staggered off along the pavement.

I was not anxious to go into the cottage where I was living, for my temporary wartime home was not the happiest of places. I was lodging with an old couple called Cyril and Wilma Jones, a retired coal miner and his wife. Wilma was a tall, thin, gaunt-looking, old woman with a hooked nose, a prominent pointed chin and greying hair, which was always neatly fastened in a bun at the back of her head. She was not the ideal person to have as a wartime guardian. She possessed a stare that could melt iron and teeth that looked every bit as fierce as those of a ferocious bulldog. She was a bossy, spiteful person and it was obvious to me that she greatly resented having me in her home. She did not look after me or feed me properly, and she seemed to take great pleasure in making me feel miserable and unhappy. I believe that Wilma had only agreed to accept a child evacuee into her home so that she could get her hands on an additional ration book which would allow her to obtain extra food.

Cyril, her long-suffering husband, was totally different. He was a small, down-trodden, hen-pecked little man with a wispy moustache and a polished, bald head, fringed with closely-cropped, grey stubble. He was totally dominated by his horrible, overbearing wife. Furthermore, poor Cyril did not enjoy very good health, for he suffered with a dry cough and a wheezy chest which I am sure were the result of a working life spent digging coal down the local mine. When Wilma was not present I quite enjoyed sitting and talking to Cyril, and I think he enjoyed my company too. He was probably grateful that I was there to share the daily torment which his wife’s sharp-edged tongue showered upon him.

Although I was not keen to go into the cottage, I did not feel happy about sitting on that wall on my own in the darkness. The deep shadows and the strange noises of the night always unnerved me. After a few minutes I decided that I would have to go in. I slid my bottom off the wall and began to walk briskly along the pavement. I was about to open the Joneses’ front gate when I heard a harsh, screeching voice yelling from the back of the cottage.

Are you coming in or are you staying out there all night?

It was Wilma Jones calling from the open back door.

Oh no! I thought to myself as I wandered round to the back of the cottage. That means the old witch will be waiting for me.

As I stretched up and lifted the latch I prepared myself for one of Wilma’s onslaughts – the paralysing looks and the withering comments which always made me feel like retreating into my shell like a frightened tortoise.

I pushed open the scullery door and Wilma was standing there, her hands on her hips and a contorted grimace on her evil face.

"Where have you been ‘til now? she snarled. Didn’t you hear me calling you?"

I’ve been talking to Georgie and Jimmy Millward, I replied.

And I’ve been shouting from this doorway ‘til I’ve hardly got any voice left, she barked. Next time I shall lock the door, and then you’ll be shut outside all night.

I came in as soon as I heard you calling, I answered politely.

You must be deaf then! she snapped The trouble with you kids is that you don’t show any respect these days. You all run wild round this village and you seem to think you can do as you please. If you belonged to me you’d get a leather strap across your back. I’d soon teach you a lesson or two.

I’m very sorry, I replied apologetically.

There was no point in saying anything else. Whatever I said would only make matters worse. I wandered into the sitting room where Cyril was sitting motionless in his chair, his eyes gazing at the glowing coals in the old-fashioned range and his arms folded across his chest. Wilma bustled into the room carrying a plate of bread, cheese and homemade pickle which she thrust roughly into her husband’s hands.

Ain’t the lad goin’ to ‘ave no supper, then? Cyril asked rather timidly.

"It’s time he was in bed, she snarled, her sharp eyes piercing me like daggers. Anyway, there’s a war on and food’s rationed – or had you forgotten that!"

Feeling very hungry but realising that I was not going to be given any more food that day, I made my way over to the door which led to the narrow staircase. I opened it and trudged unhappily up the stairs, shining my torch on every step as I went. I was feeling homesick and miserable and very lonely. I went into my bedroom, closed the door and walked across to the window which overlooked the main street. I drew my heavy black-out curtains and undressed by the light of my torch, since there were no electric lights in the upstairs rooms of the cottage.

Having got ready for bed, I switched off the torch and opened the curtains slightly, leaving a narrow gap between them. I never went to sleep with the curtains overlapping because I hated waking up in the morning in a pitch-black bedroom. I was about to climb into bed when I heard raised voices in the street below. I hurried to the window and peeped out between the curtains. I need not have bothered. It was only another couple of local miners coming out of the pub opposite, having drunk a little too much beer. I watched them as they swayed and lurched down the road, leaning on each other for support.

All was now quiet for the street was dark and deserted once more. But suddenly I noticed a movement. Someone else was coming along the pavement. I could not see the figure clearly because it was on the other side of the road in the shadow of a tall hedge. Emerging from the inky blackness, the figure crossed in front of the pub directly opposite me. Now there was no mistaking who it was! I could just make out the trilby hat and the long coat, and I could not fail to recognise that distinctive, bobbing walk. It was the mysterious stranger who had limped along the street earlier that evening. But now there was something different about him. He was no longer carrying that large case. Who was this stranger who had suddenly appeared in our midst? Where had he been and where was he going now? What had been in that case and where had he taken it? There was something about this man which made me feel more than a little nervous.

Chapter 2

The Battle of the Atlantic

Boom! Boom! went the guns. The noise was deafening as vessel after vessel was bombarded by a devastating hail of missiles. Every fresh barrage sent huge plumes of water cascading high into the air, and the boiling waters swamped the ships’ decks. The noise of battle was everywhere - the continual shouting of commands, the constant booming of the guns and the endless noise of exploding shells. Suddenly one of the missiles scored a direct hit. There were yells of delight from the British gunners as the unfortunate German warship crumpled in the middle and disappeared for ever beneath the water.

Hey Robbie! What are you playing at? cried Jimmy angrily. You’re on our side! That’s one of our German ships you’ve just sunk.

It ain’t my fault, bawled Robbie. It got in the way.

Jimmy was furious with Robbie because they were on the same side. Six year old Robbie, who the youngest member of our village gang, had just managed to sink one of their team’s better battleships. He was a small, unhappy-looking, little lad with small, hobnailed boots and a turned-up, runny nose. Whenever anyone drew attention to his discharging nostrils, he would swipe the back of his hand across his upper lip or sniff violently, causing the offending matter to shoot rapidly up inside his nose again. Young Robbie lived with his mum because his dad was away in the army. He usually tagged along with us to play, although some of the lads thought he was too young for our gang. They looked upon him as a pest and a bit of a moaner.

I wish you’d watch what you’re aiming at Robbie! said Jimmy, turning to face his fellow gunner who was standing beside him.

Well you ain’t no good! I ain’t seen you hittin’ nothin’ at all! responded Robbie with a loud snort.

Five members of our gang including Robbie, our pockets full of stones, were standing on the wooden planks of the footbridge, throwing at the homemade pairs of ships which were being despatched towards us by two of our friends sitting on the bank further up stream. We had divided ourselves into two sides. Jimmy in his brightly-coloured, striped jumper and young Robbie with his dribbling nose and hobnailed boots were the gunners for the German navy. The British Royal Navy marksmen were three in number – Michael who at eleven was the eldest gang member, an untidy little ruffian called Baz and me. This game involved two launchers sending the ships down stream in pairs, one British and one German, while each set of gunners threw their stones and tried to sink the enemy vessel before it sailed under the footbridge and out of sight.

It was a Monday - Monday August 26th to be precise. Britain had been at war with Germany for nearly a year, and these were worrying times for everybody in the country. Hitler’s brutal Nazi regime had conquered most of Europe, and our British army had been beaten back to the beaches of Dunkirk, from where they had to be rescued. The German army was stationed just across the English Channel, ready to invade us at any moment. Massive air-raids by German bombers, some dropping poisonous gas, were expected at any time, and everyone in the country had been issued with gas masks. Some bombing raids had already begun, and the Battle of Britain was raging as our outnumbered R.A.F. pilots valiantly tried to defend the skies of our country against the enemy bombers. At the same time, in the ‘Battle of the Atlantic’ the Royal Navy was striving to keep the seas safe for our shipping.

My friends and I were still on holiday from school, and on this particular day we had decided to organise our own ‘Battle of the Atlantic’. We had spent all morning making the ships from a variety of small boxes and cigarette packets. A piece of twig stuck vertically into the top of each vessel served as a mast, while one or two of the larger battleships had turrets on top with matchsticks protruding forward like guns. Each British ship had a little blue paper flag flying at the top