Stories
Alan Edwards
Wakes Week 1945
I will never forget Stockport Wakes Week in 1945. It was the first
year that I would only have one weeks’ holiday. I was a working chap
now and would have just the one-week off instead of the full school
holidays to do mostly what I wanted. It was also the first time that
I had not gone away with the rest of the family. My elder sister,
with whom lived, had a young baby barely a year old as well as a
five year old so they had decided to stay at home it being easier
that way. The scout troop to which I belonged was going to
Youlgreave in Derbyshire for their weeks summer camp so I was
persuaded to go with them. Being fifteen I was one of the senior
members of the troop and the leaders always tried to get the older
boys to go to the camp. I wasn’t really an under canvas person but
decided a week wouldn’t be too bad.
If you cast your mind back you will realise that the summer of 1945
was that peculiar time between the ending of the war in Europe and
that of the war with Japan. We had had the euphoria of VE. Day with
its attendant grand ceremonial switching off of the blackout and the
dancing in the streets to celebrate earlier in the year in May. I
had done the Conga along with my schoolmates on VE. Day at 10 30 at
night down Wellington Road past the town Hall after the pubs had
chucked out. It felt very grown up and decadent I can tell you, I
had somehow managed to bluff my way into getting a half-pint of mild
from one of the pubs. After all the celebrations were over we all
just sat back to wait for the other war to hopefully come to an end.
And I don’t think in our wildest dreams that it would come just
three months later.
Anyway here I was with the Tiviot Dale scout troop on a farm, whose
spare land was opened up to scouts and guides for camping purposes
during the summer months, in the wilds of Derbyshire. It was the
Thursday morning and our troop leader called us all together just
after breakfast and told us the news. We were all going on a Church
Parade at 11 am. No one would be excused and we had to therefore get
ourselves and our uniforms, which by that time of a weeks’ camping
were getting fairly grubby, into some semblance of decency. We would
march down to Youlgreave church from the farm where we were camped,
picking up other groups who were camped nearer to the village on our
way. Apparently there was troop of scouts that had a bugle band and
when they joined us they would lead the parade the rest of the way
in.
There was much moaning and groaning by the entire troop. It appeared
to be done as an after thought when the scoutmaster said, "Oh! By
the way the war is over". This took a few seconds to sink in to the
entire group but when it did there was much cheering and jumping
about. At least it was a pretty good reason for a church parade in
mid week.
By 11am we were all ready to march down to the village. Not the best
and smartest scout troop in the world but we had done the best we
could do under the circumstances. At least the bodies of the boys
had been scrubbed under the showers even if the uniforms were a bit
the worse for wear after a week under canvas. A couple of other
groups were camped further up the road than we were so they went by
and we tagged on behind and, with the encouragement of our leaders
we tried to outsmart the others in front.
About halfway to the church we were joined by the troop with the
band that then led the way playing what I have
always known as the bugle band march. It has some unwritten words
that most scouts and guides seem to know but which are frowned upon
by those in charge.
They go something like this:
We don’t want your bugle band,
Stick it up your **** tiddly om pom pom,
We don’t want your bugle band’
Stick it up your ****l tiddly om pom pom.
Not very Christian like but fun for school kids.
Anyway we arrived at the parish church and quickly filled the place
with our angelic schoolboy and girl voices. Well at least the
younger ones did. I kept my own bass baritone to a very low level.
The local parishioners that had managed to find a bit of space left
by the youngsters seemed to enjoy it. We did all the usual patriotic
hymns. I Vow To Me My Country. Jerusalem. Onward Christian Soldiers.
And finished up with Abide With Me which naturally the boys all knew
better that the girls. It is the football supporter’s hymn after
all.
At last it was over and we had the pleasant surprise of being
invited into the school hall where, even at such short notice, a
spread of sandwiches, buns and pop had been put on for us all. It
wasn’t so bad after all. And that is why I shall always remember
Stockport Wakes Week. 1945
Wakes Week 1945 by Alan Edwards may 2006