Open Writing

The letters BSA bring to the minds of many people thoughts of bicycles, a well respected product of the BSA company. If, however, one looks closely at that firm’s logo, they will see it contains three rifles which form an open tripod. That logo represents the original products of the BSA company, the letters of which I understand, are for ‘Birmingham Small Arms’. There is another translation, but that is not for discussion here.

Whilst giving thought to small arms I began to realize what a significant part such items played in the lives of the public, old and young, some six decades ago.

Firearms of any description hold no attraction for me. Whatever one might say in defence as to their usage, they remain killing machines, and my only admiration for such appliances is in the craftsmanship entailed in their production. What a difference in attitude that is from my boyhood days when guns occupied so much time, playing with our own toy models, shooting at people with imaginary revolvers or rifles, watching enthralled at the pictures of gunfights in either the wild west of America or the mean streets of 1930s Chicago.

Who, having seen the gangster film ‘Scarface’, could ever forget Paul Muni in the title role being handed his first Thompson sub-machine gun, the Tommy gun, and hearing him speak the unforgettable line: “Stand aside. I’m goin’ to spit!” He did too, in the poolroom where that scene took place, supposedly, shattering a row of pool cues in their rack against a wall.

In those days various types of guns were openly on sale in toy and sports shops -- Diana air-guns and pistols, BSA air-guns, Webly air-pistols. There were also starting pistols which fired blank cartridges, potato guns which fired potatoes, or bits of them, and one model which fired a spike into a small cork fitted within the gun barrel. Inside the cork was some kind of explosive, detonated by the trigger-operated spike. Young children had pop-guns. They discharged corks or short sticks with rubber sucker attachments. Part of the assembly of lead soldiers were toy cannon used in war games by children. These would shoot matchsticks.

Is it to be wondered, then, with such a variety of firearms -- for which no license was demanded -- that as young boys we were intrigued by them?

In the early stages of our boyhood development some model guns were available which fired caps. Caps came in two types -- single, confetti-sized pieces with a centrally enclosed bang and those in rolls, red paper strips which supported a dotted black line of successive bangs.

Single caps made for slow shooting, since each one had to be placed under the gun’s hammer and then the trigger pulled in order to achieve the gratifying explosion. This was a fiddly job at best, whilst a windy day could wreak havoc amongst a gunfight. Roller caps were intended for rapid fire, the roll being loaded into the gun’s chamber and threaded under the hammer. A mechanism fed the cap roll to the hammer as the trigger was pulled. Often boyish enthusiasm activated the trigger too quickly causing the cap roll to pass not under the hammer but up the side of it, which resulted in the strip having to be re-rolled and another attempt made. One can appreciate, then, that ‘fighting’ under such conditions was a haphazard affair. It did slow the ‘killing’ process down rather.

In the light evenings of summer men might be seen wearing boots, riding breeches, tweed jackets and snap-nebbed cloth caps. They marched in macho fashion into what was known locally as ‘t’ land’, farming land that is. They were rabbit hunters. With shotguns uncased and carried in the crook of their arms, yet breach-broken for safety, those gun-toters sallied forth and no one cared a jot. Today such a display would have panic-stricken police in a posse armed and streaming out of their arsenals.

Harvest time provided ‘sportsmen’ with a potential supply of game. Standing around a wheat field with guns at the ready, they watched with keen interest as the mower circled the crop, reducing the area of standing wheat at every turn. Eventually a stage was reached when any livestock contained within the remaining cereal would bolt away from the encroaching reaper blades. The creatures were unwittingly leaping from one line of fire to another, that of gunfire which often harvested the following day’s meal.

A further display of weaponry was the fairground where the shooting booths and galleries were virtual arsenals of small arms, although the guns were not for sale. Indeed, many were chained to the firing counter, chiefly to prevent theft but also to curb any outburst of frustration from a dissatisfied mis-marksman who might have wished to avenge his dented pride on the booth-holder.

Fairground shooting booths and galleries varied in their target offerings. Would-be trophy hunters might shoot at rows of metal duck cut-outs as they perpetually paraded across the firing line, or at lines of clay pipes, stationary but of smaller size than the ducks yet carrying a higher prize ratio. There were coloured table tennis balls bouncing on fluctuating jets of water or guns which fired darts aimed at playing cards mounted on a board with such precision, it was argued, that paying marksmen constantly displayed their shooting inaccuracies.

Excuses for such misaligned marksmanship were almost all the same. The gun sights had been tampered with somehow, or something had been done to the gun which caused its shot to veer from the target. Never was it the lack of prowess on the part of the marksman.

For many years the town of Dewsbury echoed each night to the sound of gunfire. Just one gun, but the citizens of the area were well acquainted with it. To them it was as much a part of their lives as the noon gun of Edinburgh. One difference with the local gun was that it was discharged at 10:00 each evening. Indeed, it was known at ‘t’ ten o’clock gun’.

That tradition was the brainchild of a director at the blanket manufacturers Wormalds and Walker, to be carried out at their works and head office Dewsbury Mill, Thornhill Lees. The night watchman’s duty was to patrol the premises, then, if all was well, to discharge the firearm, thus informing the director that the company was safely tucked up for the night. Not only was it the director who could then sleep easy, but all the employees also, and there were many since the concern for years was said to be the world’s largest woollen blanket manufacturer.

In addition, the entire population for miles around the mill listened each night for the gun’s report. Household clocks and watches were adjusted to it. Pubs with ten o’clock licenses ceased their sales of alcoholic drinks. Buses, trains and trams commenced their journeys. Should anyone enquire what the hour was around the gun’s firing time, the reply would be, ‘t gun essent gooan off yit’ or ‘t’ gun’s gooan off’.

The firing of that gun was part of the culture of the district. When the long hours of summer’s light evening cast their spell of forgetfulness over children at play and time in young minds became a nonentity concerning the adult world only, then would the boom of the watchman’s discharge shatter all illusions of perpetual play. Childhood imaginings fizzled into oblivion, to be replaced by the more tangible realities of parental chastisement. The explosion reverberated in young minds bringing the awful realization that it was ten o’clock with the possibility, if not probability, of more explosions to follow.

Bang, Boom and Wallop!