Open Writing

One night, returning from the canteen to our Nissen hut, the conversation had gradually died down as we lay in our bunks hoping for an hour or two of sleep before the alarm. Silence fell upon the hut, silence that is, except for the unbelievable variety of noises that forty men make when asleep, especially after a few helpings of baked beans and beer in the canteen.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting alarm bell rang. TAKE POSTS!" yelled Sergeant Walters.

As usual, old Joe, the Lambeth Council lavatory attendant, rolled out of bed, forgetting that he was on the top bunk, and crashed on top of Bill Steers, businessman and factory owner. As they sorted themselves out, Sir Ernest, of the Foreign Office, pulled a boot half on then let out a yell, "Something bit me."

"Gaw! What a laugh," roared Sam, the cockney boiler cleaner from Battersea Power Station. "Them's my bleedin' boots. It's me teeth what's in 'em. I always leave 'em in me boots so I knows where th' little bleeders are. Of course they bit yer; they thought you was tryin' to pinch 'em, poor little sods. 'Ere, let me put 'em in me mouth quick."

He started laughing fit to burst until Sergeant Walters yelled at him, "I'll put my bloody fist in your mouth if you don't get a move on, Sam. Take Posts!"

But then I was outside and running in the chill night for Projector No. 13 of Charlie Troop, as fast as I could so that I would be No.1, and Sam would have the onerous chore of loading the rockets as No.2.

I pulled on the earphones and waited for the orders. "Fuse 67!" I yelled to Sam and heard him repeat it.

We set the fuses on the rockets' nose caps and he loaded them.

"Bearing, one eight five." I pushed the projector round to the mark.

"Height seven four!" I yelled to Sam; I heard him repeat it and saw him raise the ramp.

"Stand By!" crackled the earphones, "Stand By!" I shouted to Sam.

Then, sure enough, it came again, "Stand Down." and almost immediately, "Unload".

For a few seconds I waited; thoughts flashed through my mind: fires....the Blitz....restrictions....shortages....fear....bombs....broken windows again. In complete frustration with everything, I said, "Dammit all!" and I slammed down the firing handle.

There was a blinding flash, a cloud of smoke and an almighty, mind-shattering and ground-shaking roar, as our two rockets took off. The other 79 projectors were all pointing in different directions returning to the standard bearing of 359°, and the ramps all at different angles returning to 45° to unload.

Thinking that they had misunderstood the order or, maybe, knowing they had not, but filled with a similar feeling of frustration, first a few, then gradually all the rest, started firing off as well. The deafening salvo lasted for about a minute. The rockets went all over the place, in all directions and at different angles.

Two of them shot over the Marble Arch, missing the Cumberland Hotel by a whisker, but taking off five of its chimney pots, as they hurtled skywards. A terrified sentry flung himself to the ground as two rockets roared over the camp gates and, miraculously missing the trees, headed down to the Serpentine Lake. Plainly visible in the bright moonlight, they skimmed along the surface, bounced twice, then, like torpedoes, went under in a turbulent cloud of spray and foam, to disappear without trace except for a surge of gurgling bubbles coming to the surface.

Four more streaked over Park Lane, racing each other to the heavens and straddling the Dorchester Hotel, two on either side, as they went. Two others went straight up and, as though with the intention of confirming Newton's Law of Gravity, came straight down again, crashing through trees to finish in Green Park. There they stood, embedded nose first, almost side by side, proudly erect, like two ancient phallic symbols.

Identified by the Battery markings on the battered fins, they were promptly returned to us by the Royal Engineers Bomb Disposal Squad, with a sarcastic note pointing out that they were far too busy defusing unexploded bombs and mines without having to clean up 'the droppings' from Dad's Army. They politely requested that in future we remember to set the fuses so that our little firecrackers went off 'pop' in the air, without danger to anybody — and probably, by the looks of it, that would include bombers of the Luftwaffe.

The other rockets took off to all points of the compass with a nerve-shattering roar that seemed endless, most leaving an avalanche of broken branches and twigs tumbling down.

Dad's Army had fired! The hoodoo had been broken.