A farmer was permitted by law to own a gun without licence for
the protection of his crops and we had two for that purpose. They
were both double-barrelled, 12 bore, hammer-type guns and very
necessary for anyone who grew acres of peas. When a field was
newly sown all species of crow and pigeon seemed to acquire the
knack of following the rows and systematically digging out the
peas for yards and the gun was the only answer to the problem.
The scarecrow became a romantic object from the pen of Walter de
la Hare and other poets but it rarely deceived the birds. We knew
from experience that scarecrows were useless and they were not
seen in Barwick fields.
Some homing pigeons became victims of the shotgun but they
had no immunity from the law as they were shot in the act of
feeding on the crop and left where they fell. I do not remember
ever shooting ringed homing pigeons but, on one occasion, I fired
at a flock of feral pigeons as they flew up from the crop and
killed four with one shot. Fred Lumb kept homing pigeons and he
once heatedly made vague insinuations about my Shotgun activities
but no direct accusation. He knew there were many gun owners in
the Barwick area.
There used to be an annual rook-shooting at Potterton Hall and
the young birds were sold in the village at 4 pence a brace. Rook
pie, in which only the legs were used, was a well-known delicacy.
The village policemen always had guns and I doubt if many of
them had licences. I remember the harvest time of 1939 when I was
invited to shoot on the Thorps' land. I carried the gun, broken
into three parts, in a sack and went across the field to where Fred
Thorp was working with a binder. Presently also carrying guns
came Frank Foster, a young man of about my own age, from Barnbow,
and the Barwick 'bobby' PC Peaker. We stationed ourselves at three
corners of the field so that the gun nearest the target would fire
when the rabbit was in safe range away from the corn. Rabbits
were scarce and we had to wait until only a 30 yard square of corn
was left standing before one bolted past Peaker toward the hedge.
He fired and missed so I took a long shot and knocked it over
before it reached the shelter of the field edge. That was the only
rabbit we saw and it went to Thorps. Gun licences were not
mentioned.
PC Stanley Peaker, the Barwick bobby
There is a sad footnote to that little tale. It was the last
time I met that nice young man, Frank Foster, for he died within a
short time of that sunny afternoon. I cannot remember the cause.
Things were a little different in the time of PC Peaker's
predecessor. He was PC Bull who had a curious profile with up-
turned nose and, some say, was well named. When father and his
brother-in-law, Uncle George, had been out with the guns one day
they had to cross Potterton Lane to get back to the farm. A short
stretch of public road, about five yards or so, but long enough
thereon to be accosted by PC Bull. Uncle George was not protecting
his crops, he was a stranger, he was on a public road with a gun
and no licence. So his name and address went into the notebook
and later a warning letter from Police H.Q., by which time he had
obtained a licence and nothing more was heard of the matter.
Of course certain village characters were known to do a bit of
'rabitting' but were rarely seen in the act. Rabbits were sold for
6d. or 9d. each. We had proof on our land one day, when a ferret
emerged from a hole and was immediately killed by our sheep dog.
I learned about guns in what could be described as 'the hard
way'. Apart from stressing the dangers from firearms my father
gave no advice about their usage, treating the subject in the same
way as he did sex, presumably assuming common sense and a farm
up-bringing would be sufficient instruction. So at 16, one summer
evening, I took a double-barrelled 12 bore and two cartridges and
went across the fields for my first rabbit. Then I had my first -
self-taught - lesson and learned that one must hold the gun very
firmly when firing. The recoil gave me such a bump on the
shoulder that I never forgot the rule. And the rabbit, which was
sitting, got away!
One learned to be careful about guns from seeing and hearing
things which happened in the farming community in particular.
There was one villager who, as a young man, had blown off the toes
of one foot when going through a hedge with a shotgun.
I remember the time when all the villagers were talking about
the notorious case not far from Barwick at Saxton Grange when
Ernest Brown murdered his employer with the farm shotgun and tried
to hide the evidence by setting fire to the mistal where the body
lay. Shotgun pellet marks on concrete were largely responsible for
the murder verdict and Brown was hanged in Armley Gaol.
Guns were to become much more familiar articles and when war
came and I was awaiting a call from the RAF, I volunteered for the
Barwick Squad of the Local Defence Volunteers formed by Mr Barker.
Our only distinguishing mark was an armband with the letters LDV
and later, after I had gone, the squad became part of the Home
Guard. We attended a course of instruction under a former Bisley
Champion rifleman at Thorner, and set up sentry posts at the
church. Those two-hourly watches on the top of Barwick church
tower, on winter nights, could be a cold and reflective experience.
I can only remember two of my colleagues in that squad, who were
mainly men over 40, some of whom served in the 1914-18 'War, but I
remember the excitement when our first service rifles arrived.
They were a standard .303 calibre Army rifle fitted with a 'peep'
sight, made by Ross in Canada.
A firing range was set up on Parlington land, a few yards from
Ass Bridge, with field of fire across the Cock Beck. Then came the
day when we paraded to fire our first shots. Each man had one
round of ammunition and the distance was 100 yards. Only two
'bullseyes' were scored and those by the youngest members of the
squad, 'the two lads', Bill Smith and myself.
I must end this section on an unpleasant note. I volunteered
for the RAF and passed the medical and other requirements on 1st.
January 1940 but had to wait until July of that year before I was
called. In the waiting period I was serving with the LDV, but not
under military orders, so six months later, when on leave from the
RAF, 1 decided to say 'hello'. So one evening I went to the sentry
post at the foot of the church tower where I had stood for so many
hours on duty and found an old colleague, now wearing Home Guard
uniform.
Almost immediately 1 heard a click of the church-yard gate and
along came another of the squad, with whom I had trained, and I
saw that he was now a lance-corporal. He was about 40 and I knew
him well. As soon as he saw me he demanded 'What do you want?' I
was astounded and replied '1 just came to say hello to Albert'.
'Well get out!' he said and, jabbing with his forefinger at his
brand new stripe, 'See that? I said get out!' My amazement must
have showed but I made no move to go, whereupon he turned in fury
and, shouting 'Give me that gun, Albert', he seized the rifle and
advanced on me until the bayonet was touching the upper button of
my tunic. 'Get out or you'll get this!' he said in a menacing voice.
So I backed away and left but telling him a little of what I
thought of him as I did so.
I served six years in the RAF including four years abroad in
different theatres of war, came near to death on occasions, was
wounded and had many a fright but the only time 1 was threatened
with a bayonet was in Barwick churChyard. By that time I too had
received my first promotion.
But for whatever was one fixed bayonet needed in Barwick
churchyard in the early days of the war?
