Hardly had we
returned from our whirling tour when we left our home station to do a little
job some 80 miles from here. At its
inception I had my doubts about whether this jaunt would prove of much interest,
- but time proved my fears to be very foolish, - we had a lovely ten days which
almost amounted to a vacation. Work from
eight till five (not too wearing either) then off for the evening, - with
transportation. As Petrillo[1]
would say, - but good!!! The men will be
talking about it for the next ten years.
We were in a quiet corner of Shropshire, on the estate of an Englishman, who leased the estate to the Army, - the manor is being used for a blind school. And I became acquainted with the Squire by a really whacky set of circumstances, the only one of the bunch who did!!! Again, - most interesting.
Without going into complete details: We have the problem of garbage (swill, over here) disposal no matter where we find ourselves planted. It was during the course of my manouverings (sic) to get rid of the stuff that I met Hubert Smith, the Squire’s bailiff (a pretty important guy in his own right, I find). Well, the problem became pretty involved; someone else had made some sort of arrangement without my knowledge, - so I had to go back to Hubert, like an ass, and tell him that he couldn’t have the swill. “Oh, I can’t, can’t I, - well, Tony, my boy, we’ll see about that”. And so I met the Squire.[2] Here am I, in my funny way, trying to palm this stuff off on someone, and, to my surprise, I find that I’m handling quite a little pearl. (There are some four or five hundred hogs[3] on the estate, - get the picture? With grain as hard to get as it is, - what a dope I can be!!) How I wish that I had the time and patience and skill, to tell of K------- H------[4] Hubert told me some of the history of the place and the family that has lived there thru centuries. His story was only a wee part and yet it would take me a day or two for me to attempt a retelling: ghosts, great ladies and gentlemen, the family silver, the family tree, how the present Squire acquired the estate (quite a tale in itself, complete with second cousin Edmund getting himself killed in the World War[5] etc.) and so on and on. I’ve been to the manor and tho’ considerably mutilated by its present occupants, it takes very little imagination to picture it in its heyday. As an example: there’s a staircase, the widest I’ve seen outside of a public building, which is made from solid oak cut on the estate (the whole place, the wooden part, that is, is constructed from wood cut on the grounds) and every riser of the staircase is inlaid with the coat of arms of the Childe family, - and the walls of the stair well are papered with stuff made of satin and velour!!! And you ought to see the Big Room, I don’t know whether they call it that or not; corresponds with our living room in function, I imagine.
The church on the grounds, a lovely little place, tells much of the family history, simply by containing their tombs, - members of Parliament, the High Court of Chancery, and God knows what all rest in the place. I remarked to Rodney[6] that to write the family history of Roland Childe Esq. and do it completely, one would probably have to write the history of all England, - and I don’t feel that my remark was very far from the truth.
Roland
is a character undescribable to an American, and I’m not versatile enough to
chance it to English born. Physically,
he’s about my height, 42,[7]
quite stocky, and has a manner which at first meeting I thought I’d never be
able to bear, - married, for the second time, to a most charming English woman
(Rod and I took to her immediately, - she speaks with very little accent, and
certainly knows how to be the complete hostess). He’s come down considerably in the world
since the war (tho’ the income of the estate runs to some 20,000 pounds, he’s
taxed 100% on everything over about 1500, - unbelievable, isn’t it?[8] There’s a lot of other stuff connected with
his finances which Hubert told me in confidence, - and I couldn’t remember half
of it if I tried. Roland had a bunch of
ancestors who would make pikers out of some of our so-called gamblers, it
seems, and they left the guy with a couple of debts here and there.) But in manner he’s changed but little, I
think, - and he manages to retain a sort of half-bitter, half cynical,
half Oh what the hell do I care sense of
humour about it all, - it’s the damndest thing, really!!!
I hope this isn’t getting too bewildering for you to cope with, - it is for me … I’ve had the God Damndest Three Weeks that I’ve ever had in all my life and it’s most difficult to make a sensible letter out of it.
The Squire invited Rod and myself to dinner one evening and we enjoyed ourselves very thoroughly. On first meeting, as I have said, I thought I’d have a lot of difficulty getting on with him, but as the Scotch began to flow and we talked the usual getting-more-acquainted-talk I suddenly discovered that what I presumed to be an overbearing, pompous English Squire could be, and was, a pretty human guy. After four or five cocktails, we retired to the dining room for as delicious a dinner as I’ve had in ages; green peas (fresh) duck, which I was given the honor of carving and those tiny potatoes that I’ve heard you speak of so often (roasted, like you do it, Mom. Oh, my but they were good!!!) Beer and Scotch were on the table during the meal and then a decanter of Port (Roland pooh-pooed our exclamations on its quality, - but I still think I have a bit of a tongue for wine, - and it was good.) which had to be passed counterclockwise around the table till it was consumed. Mrs. Childe retired to the living room about this time, - and it’s a good thing that she did. I’ve discovered something about the English male: swearing among them is more or less restricted to the upper and lower class (and farmers), the middle bracket seems to leave it more or less alone. Well, we wandered from story telling (not clean) to a general discussion of politics: here believe me I received a considerable shock, for the man was no ultra conservative as I expected. He’s pretty mixed up in a lot of his views (who the Hell isn’t???) but there’s a thoughtful, quite openminded vein running thru all his views (even as regards Russia). About England and America, he stated that he thought that some sort of policing arrangement ought to be agreed on, but that the two countries “shouldn’t go to bed together”, - a sentiment that we agree on completely. (There’s a bit of going to bed with the Russians going on here now, and, as in the States, most of it is pure bull. Mr. Average Joe is pretty sincere I believe, but that’s as far as it goes. And that’s a Helluva long way from being far enough for anything concrete to come of it.
Before I’ve
finished with the dinner may I say that it was perfectly served by a couple of
Hungarian maids and the setting was just about perfect. The dining room is small and intimate,
candlelight was used (properly, however, - you could see your food) and some of
the family silver was trotted out. Later
in the evening, Roland showed us some more of this, - most of it made years and
years ago, and, believe me, its beauty is a tribute to the man who spent
hundreds of patient hours making it. Such
craftsmanship is a thing of the past, - what there is of this sort of art in
the States probably came from over here.
Thousands of pounds worth of it have been sold from Roland’s estate in
fact, and the purchasers were American for the most part. (Hubert told me one evening that a three
day auction was held at the estate some years ago, - three days, - and that
one of the items sold was a complete silver breakfast set, - plates, cups,
saucers, everything solid silver. My
back!)[9] We joined Mrs. Childe in the other room to
finish the decanter of Scotch, (two evenings we spent at that house, and both
times we had to finish the decanter before he’d allow us to leave. A great hardship I can assure you!!!) then Roland
and I had a hilarious omelette making session in the kitchen, - at which time
he told me that I must call him Roland (you can touch me if you want to!!!) and
another barrier dropped to the floor. So
home to my little bed sack.
In case you are harbouring any ideas about my trotting out my best behavior for the occasion, or acting in any other way except normal thru the night, let me assure you that I almost proceeded in the opposite course. I arrived at his home fully prepared not to like the man, and spend a most boring evening putting up with him. Perhaps it was his ability to act the perfect host effortlessly that made the evening so pleasant, - I don’t know, but it was pleasant.
So much for Roland Childe.
Now
for a page or so about the Smiths. This
is more difficult, because we became quite good friends, strolled down to the
house whenever we felt so inclined, and consequently there aren’t the clear-cut
recollections that go with meeting Roland.
Before proceeding, tho’, I can say that I’ve never met finer people; we,
Rod and I, were free to act as tho’ the place, Norton’s End Farm,[10]
were our home; little kings we were with nothing too good for us.
The family is Hubert, the Squire’s bailiff, Mrs. Smith, Charlie, a handsome strapping boy of 23 who runs one of the farms on the estate, and Betty, a 14 year old gal who is just beginning to sprout wings (and will she be something when they’re sprouted!!!). Rod and I spent six or eight evenings down at the farm; we did nothing particularly exciting on these occasions, just sat around drinking Bass, chewing the rag, playing darts, and quietly enjoying ourselves. Some of my countrymen would have thought the time wasted I know, - but … Hubert is a natural story teller (he likes to talk incidentally, - a commendable trait I find, - you get to know such people much quicker). One of the facts that contributed to our welcome was that they live a comparatively uneventful life, especially since the war has progressed, we were the first Yanks that they had become acquainted with, and since we went half way to meet them, Norton’s End was our kingdom. Another contributing factor was that Mrs. Smith worked in St. Helen’s[11] (at Pilkington’s[12]) years ago (I believe she lived in Preston (?)) and when I announced that my Mother was born in St. Helen’s, she was so pleased about it that she didn’t stop talking of the wonder of it for days!!! She asked me to ask you if you remembered a pork butcher name of Whittle (I believe that was the name, - tho’ what the Hell difference it makes whether you remember this guy Whittle is beyond me.) She was so pleased about this coincidence, that made (sic) me feel sorry that I’d not paid closer attention to you when you talked of the places that you remembered in your birthplace.
We have a standing invitation to come to Norton’s End if we ever get enough leave to make this possible… the invitation, to Betty and Charlie and Mrs. Smith, is practically equivalent to our getting there. “When Tony and Rod get their leave we’ll do such and such” They say. Hubert, fortunately, takes a more realistic view of the business.
Now I’ve got to say something about a Saturday that we spent on the estate that is really a memorable occassion (sic). (Ain’t you just a little bored by this about now!!!!???? My exclamation and ravings are beginning to pall aren’t they? Forgive me, ----this is all so new to me, ---and I had such a good time that I’m enjoying[13] it all over again just in the telling. My only regret about any of this is that all of you can’t be with me as I go high-tailing around England with an insatiable interest in learning something about the country.
The evening that we had dinner at Roland’s (a Thursday) he asked us if we would like to take part in a deer drive that was to come about the following Saturday.[14] Would we??? Oh my lord love a duck!!! Would the Old Man[15] let us have the time off was my first thought, ___so to spike that worry I asked Roland, whether, if worst came to worst, I might ask 44[16], so that we could go. I knew the old devil would leap at the chance, and he couldn’t very well go and not (illegible)[17] us to, (sic) ---- and further it’s thing’s (sic) like this which put him ever so slightly in my debt, not a bad way to have things, I might add. I hope that doesn’t sound like “operating” because there’s to (sic) much of that stuff going on now without my sticking my finger into it. But a little now and then doesn’t make me feel too guilty, -- it’s done in the best of Army circles.) Saturday arrived and as luck would have it we were all busy with things that couldn’t wait, -- but we finally decided “to hell with it” at noon, called Hubert and arranged to meet him at the local pub, and took off armed with our carbines and a few rounds of ammunition that Rod had managed to finagle.
Ten
or twelve farmers participated and the afternoon was a huge success. We got seven deer, one of which I shot (the
only one bagged with a carbine, --- managed to ride the Colonel a little on
this!!) in a really hilarious afternoon.
It’s been a long while since I’ve seen anything as funny as those crazy
farmers arguing about who shot each deer, and then, like grand strategists
debating about how the next drive would proceed. They talk pretty broadly (and cuss the same
way) and half the time neither Rod nor the Colonel could understand what in
blazes they were talking about.
(Strangely enough I fare a little better than most, -- due, no doubt, to
hearing you use some of the same expressions as they use, like “mither” and
“cheeky beggar!) Odd fact: they say “I
be” for “I am” and “I Bain’t” (sic on capital) for “I’m not going
to”. But it sure was fun, -- then weary
from the running about, we carried our prizes back to Norton’s End, where
Hubert (the Squire wasn’t present, -- some Home Guard Business) strictly
according to feudal tradition divided the days kill. You don’t get what you shoot, because all
the deer belong to the Squire, so it’s his privelege (sic) to decide how much you’re gonna get. Hubert gave us a leg and a loin (More than
our share, as three of the deer were set aside for consumption at a Harvest
Supper[18]
for all hands a week or so after we left) and foe (sic, obviously a typo for “for”) Sundays dinner we had a huge
platter of the most delicious steaks you can imagine. Rodney, the animal, ate four, --- good sized
ones too, and then could eat no supper.
The evening that we left was a large one. The squire came over to see me in the afternoon, telling me that we had to come into town for a drink at least. Then Hubert followed, with an invitation from Charlie and Vera (his wife) and all the while I didn’t know if we could get out for the evening. (The O.M. was in an uproar about something ---- even thought of asking him along again so we could go!!!) But it wasn’t necessary: after chow we took off for Hubert’s place, stayed there till ten (Roland called up twice to ask where the Hell we were) then over to Charlie’s. At both places a quart of pre-war stuff was dragged out. At eleven thirty we headed for Roland’s, where the usual decanter had to be consumed, and back to Charlie’s at one thirty (they insisted that we come back, regardless of what the hour). Finally at 3:45 we bid a sorrowful goodnight and back to camp for a couple of hours of sleep before returning here.
I write the above paragraph with a definite purpose in mind. Believe me, I’m not crowing about how much people love us, or about my whisky consuming ability. Rather I want to make you understand how far out of their way several very good people went to make us welcome. With Scotch at 3 pounds per quart, on the unrationed market, people don’t just trot out a bottle every other night of the week, --- it ain’t done, ‘cause in many cases when that’s gone there ain’t no more, especially 40 year old stuff like Charlie had.
Rod and I went into Birmingham one evening, the only evening that we were away from here that stands out as a poor evening. I don’t like what I’ve seen of Birmingham, --- so much for that. (God, I’m coming up in the world, aren’t I? The second largest city in England and I dismiss it with two lines. Helluva nerve.)
That brings us about up to date. I’ve not told you ‘arf, of course, but it’ll have to do for the present.
You know, --- I can’t find those notes that I referred to at the beginning of this longest of letters. Damn.
Just General Stuff:
While in London I cashed a check for $50.00 at the Cahse Nat’l of N.Y.; [a1] added to my present debt that makes a total of $179.94 that I owed you. Notice I say owed. Because a couple of days ago I sent you $100.00, leaving a balance of $79.94 by a simple subtraction. Check? I think that this can be cleared up next pay-day. Let me know when you get the “C” will (illegible)[19] some sort of arrangement will have to be worked out on this money proposition because I can’t cash checks under normal circumstances and I don’t like carrying my entire pay around with me. What I shall probably do is allot some part of it to you to do with as you see fit, ---bonds or whatever else you deem sensible. Or would you rather I increase the bond allotment and take care of it that way? I don’t want to cause you a lot of trouble, and yet if a few dollars a month can be useful to you I don’t want it steered into the Treasury vaults. Tell me about this.
Was humming “Has anyone here seen Kelly” [20] the other night, and, much surprised, my ATS[21] acquaintance asked me where I’d ever heard that. This was followed by a lengthy discourse about Vesta Tilly[22] and her contemporaries. Got to wondering after a while where the Hell I was, in England or at 36 Wellesley Ave.!!!! Have I told you the story of the Colonel’s gal Hilda, -- and this ATS couple that Rod and I drop in on now and then? Most Amusing Tale (sic). Tell me if I’ve told you-all about it, and I haven’t,[23] I’ll attend to it in a future letter (if I can remember the details that long). There’s another story, not a damn bit amusing however, that will wait till after the war for telling, -- about some pilfered doughnuts --- but I’m way too disgusted to go into it now.[24]
Charlie Parry[25] is a must on my list. The only way that I can get time to see him however, is by taking a couple of days leave ([26]as usual officers do not get passes, --- the men do, -- but not our little group. As soon as thing (sic) calm down here a little, I’ll put the bite on Ruff and see what happens. I suppose I should write to him shouldn’t I? Come to think of it, there’s a lot of people that I should write to!!! My main trouble during the past few weeks has been that the Army interferes too much with my getting about. Bad situation. Generally, if it’s been a choice between the Army and something else, the Army has wound up the loser. Also bad situation. See if we can’t remedy that shortly, Pritchard, ---or modify the attitude at least.
Right here and now I want to declare myself about my life over here. I feel a statement coming on.
Statement: Tho’ I wear a ribbon for being in an active theatre of operations, my attitude about this phrase is the same as it’s always been, --- almost. I’m having as good a time as I’ve ever had in my life, and I would refuse to put a price on the experiences that I’ve been priveleged (sic) to enjoy. There are those who are very unhappy over here, --- foolishly so, I believe. Ordinary people would misunderstand such a declaration: fortunately for myself you are not ordinary people. I miss you all very much, --- once upon a time I missed you all the time. That is not so now. When I do have my spells of homesickness, they are more intense than they were, and I am no person to live with for a few days. (Rod generally has to bear the brunt of such attacks). But I’ve learned the formula for snapping out of these moods and am better for it. And this I feel most sincerely: When this God Damn foolishness is over I shall come back home a much wiser person than I left, and God knows I can ask no more.
Enough of that.
I’ve enclosed a request for a few items that I’d appreciate your sending. If they give you any trouble at the P.O., tell them that there’s a second Joe[27] in Europe that says to go jump in the Woonasquatucket.[28] I can manage without the things, -- just a matter of a little treat that I’d like you to ship. These people have gotten along for five years on a Helluva lot less than I’m getting, and if they can do it so can I.
I’m way behind on my correspondence (always am) so if you don’t hear from me for a while don’t worry.
Cheerio[29],
Anton
I’ll
go over your letters and answer any specific questions in my next – if I can
remember.
[1] Tony Petrillo, a
friend of Anton’s from Providence.
[2] Roland Lacon Childe
(1898-1944). Died December 28, 1944;
according to current residents of Kinlet of a sudden heart attack. The plaque in his memory in Kinlet Church
reads in part, “From his tenants, employees, and many friends as a token of
gratitude and respect for his 21 years service as a benefactor to the parish of
Kinlet”..
[3] This seems to be an
underestimate; according to Charles and Vera Smith (see later in the letter)
the farm at Norton’s End had three pig houses each one holding 500 pigs. See Charles and Vera Smith, “Farming at the
time of World War II: a valuable part of Kinlet’s contribution to the war
effort, 1939-1944” (sic), in The Kinlet History Group, Kinlet: The Life and
Times of a Shropshire Village (Kinlet Hall, Bewdley 2007) pp. 154-155.
[4] Kinlet Hall, In Kinlet
Parish, Shropshire. Presumably not spelled out for censorship reasons. Constructed or rebuilt in 1729 for William Lacon
Childe. For views and information,
see http://www.discovershropshire.org.uk/html/search/verb/GetRecord/theme:20070117084941 and
http://www.ukuva.co.uk/hall.htm,, accessed September 10, 2014.
[5] Edmund
Childe-Pemberton, killed at the Battle of Vimy Ridge in Flanders, April 13,
1917. Kinlet History Group, op.cit., pp.
132-33.
[6] Rodney Mortensen,
another lieutenant in the 212th Armored Field Artillery.
[7] Actually 45
[8] I don’t know at this
point whether this could have been correct.
[9] The Kinlet Estate held
a very large auction of land in 1919, and an auction of items from Kinlet Hall
in 1922. The silver breakfast set was
most likely part of the 1922 auction.
Kinlet History Group, op.cit., pp. 142-148.
[10] Norton’s End Farm is
still listed as a working farm by the website of the Kinlet Parish Plan
Steering Committee, http://www.ukuva.co.uk/kinletpp.htm. , accessed March 25, 2014. Googling Norton’s End Farm was the first
step in identifying Kinlet as the location of the events described in this
letter.
[11] Anton Pritchard’s
parents, Arnold Pritchard Sr. and Fanny Hart Pritchard, came to the United States
from St. Helen’s, in Lancashire (now Merseyside), in 1911.
[12] A large glass
manufacturer, based in St. Helen’s.
[13] The word “enjoying”
was omitted from the typescript and is hand-written in the margin.
[14] For the origins of
these annual hunts see Charles Smith, “Shooting on the Kinlet Estate”, in
Kinlet History Group, op. cit., p. 151.
The hunts originated in the 1920’s; the goal was to keep the herd to a
viable size and protect crops.
[15] As the later part of
the letter makes clear, this and the reference to “44” is Lieutenant Colonel
Phillip H. Pope, Battalion Commander of the 212th Armored Field
Artillery.
[16] Another term for
Colonel Pope.
[17] There is an ink blot
in this part of the letter which covers this word.
[18]Charles Smith describes setting aside some of the venison from the
1940 hunt for a supper for the estate workers (about forty people) Kinlet
History Group, op cit., p. 151. It seems unlikely that “Harvest Supper” is the
right term for an event held in April.
[19] This is also affected
by the ink blot mentioned above, which soaked through to the back side of the
paper. Several other words are affected but enough is visible to make it clear
in context what is intended.
[20] Popular British music
hall song by C. W. Murphy and Will Letters (1908), originally titled “Kelly
from the Isle of Man”. The original and
some modified versions, appears in a number of films and TV shows both before
and after the war.
[21] Most likely the
Auxiliary Territorial Service, the Women’s branch of the British Army during
WWII.
[22] Stage name of Matilda
Alice Powles (1864-1952) very well-known English male impersonator and popular
music hall performer.
[23] Word “if” apparently
omitted
[24] I learned something
about this from former Colonel Benjamin Schleider, who in April 1944 was a
lieutenant in the 212th AFA.
He and Anton Pritchard were out on a night exercise with a small group
of troops, and got back to base in the wee hours of the morning. Being cold and hungry, they broke into a
dining hall and had a” doughnut feast”. They
were bawled out by both Colonel Pope and by the Head of Division Artillery, but
nothing was put in the official record.
The incident does not seem to have harmed Lieutenant Schleider’s
standing in the Division, as he was soon after selected to become an aide to
General Grow, the Division commander.
[25] A chemist (pharmacist)
in Colwyn Bay, Wales. A friend of Anton
Pritchard’s parents, from before their emigration from England to the United
States. See his letters of January 29,
1940, and November 27, 1944.
[26] This parenthesis is
never closed.
[27] A second lieutenant
[28] A river in Rhode
Island.
[29] Everything from this
point on is handwritten.
