The ancient town of Bungay, situated on the border of Norfolk and Suffolk, possesses two outstanding monuments which are mentioned in most guide books. One is Bungay Castle, a ruin lying behind the town so that the casual visitor or the hurried motorist is unaware of its existence; the other is the Butter Cross, a fine example of timbering and lead-craft standing in a conspicuous square in the centre of the town. The Butter Cross is not a cross at all, but a domed circular shelter supported on round pillars. In the old days when wars were confined to local tournaments on a few acres of open ground, the farmers who tilled the rich soil of the district met in competition at the Butter Cross to sell their produce, and the poorer folk whose cattle grazed on Bungay Common peddled butter and eggs in its shade. In 1944, however, there was no butter to sell and the tarmacadam surrounding the ancient monument was principally used as a car park, or a meeting place for American airmen and their weekend sweethearts, and in the shade of the dome stood prospective passengers awaiting the arrival of the red bus for Halesworth. Twice a week two fishmongers erected their tables and sold their share of the catch caught into Lowestoft and Yarmouth. Another sign of the times was the absence of the bronze figurehead which in more peaceful days had capped the dome of the edifice. During the War the statue had been removed; rumour had it that the Americans at Bungay airfield had requested its removal as it caused interference with their Radar equipment, but it is more likely that the Town Reeve and his Council decided on its removal for safe keeping in event of bombing. Even without its figurehead, however, the Butter Cross commanded interest and attention as the traveller entered the town and wound his way through the narrow curving streets.

Cross Street is little more than an alley running from the Butter Cross to the Beccles road. Half a dozen cottages, an old weigh office with the weighbridge still in evidence in the roadway, a tiny saddler's shop, and a teashop occupied the frontage of the street. The teashop was part of a large rambling building which had at one time been a public house. The entrance to the house was by way of a wide yard gate opening into the courtyard. It is probable that the courtyard was cobbled at one time, but when I entered it the first time it looked like a garden which had been trodden down and rather neglected. Two magnificent pear trees met over the gateway to form a ceiling of green shade, and climbing plants clung to the old brick walls at the back of the house. The courtyard was entirely closed in by tall buildings, so that there was little sunshine at any time to encourage a gardener. A large empty barn ran down one side of the yard and a kitchen had been formed in the end of it nearest the house. Apparently a small two-room dwelling had existed once between the end of the barn and a wing of the old inn, but only the tiled roof remained and the site of the former dwelling had become part of the yard. A door, which must have been the front entrance of the cottage before its demolition, opened out surprisingly into the graveyard adjoining the church.

The kitchen at the end of the barn was connected to the main building by a covered passage, and the two tearooms of the shop were entered by doors situated almost opposite the back entrance. A corridor ran to the left to give access to a small dining room, and on the right of the entrance the corridor led to a winding flight of polished oak steps. The first floor had originally contained the lounge and large dining room of the inn, but the dining room had in later years been partitioned to form bedrooms. The attic floor contained three bedrooms also, so that the property was an excellent boarding house.

Mrs. Hall had been reserved, even cool, at our first meeting. I naturally expected that it would be necessary to break the ice and allow a homely atmosphere to develop as our knowledge of each other grew. I am slow, perhaps, at making approaches towards this end, but Mrs. Hall was even slower. On the first evening my dinner was served in the small dining room, a cosy place with a low oak-beamed ceiling and panelled walls. I ate alone. After the meal I sat in the armchair by the fire - alone. The silence was profound. I looked around me to see if the ornaments and photographs would give me an insight into the family. The narrow mantelpiece was chock full of small brass ornaments, and small articles were arrayed along a narrow ledge lower down. There was an assortment of bullets and small calibre cannon shells, gleaming in the freshness of spit and polish. A small clock stood in the centre of the brass ornaments, and I noticed that its face was out of plumb, the six and twelve some ten minutes to each side of the vertical.

A girl came into the room. I had caught a glimpse of her as I was talking to Mrs. Hall in the shop that afternoon. She had startling copper-coloured hair, a tip-tilted nose, and the figure of a boy. I estimated her age as eighteen or nineteen. She said good-evening, and fled through a small door up a narrow winding staircase to an upper room. A little later Mrs. Hall came in to enquire what time I wished to be called in the morning, and then, she too withdrew, and I decided that I might as well go to bed. Two of my watches were left in Singapore in February 1942, and a third is at the bottom of the Java Sea, so that I rely on others to keep me informed of the time. I looked at the clock and was surprised that the tedious first evening had passed so very quickly. I did not know that the clock was always running, always gained something like an hour a day, and was generally ignored by the Halls - it took me several days to discover that. The long night's rest did good after the previous day's travelling, and I awoke refreshed when a knock at the door announced the time.

The morning's work consisted of settling down to the office routine. The seventeen-year-old typist, the only clerical staff, was inexperienced and at a loss with the volume of correspondence and bills which poured into the office. No attempt had been made to ease her burden by starting a proper filing system - there was not even a filing cabinet in the office - and files were piled here and there about the room. The stock of stationery, such as it was, was thrown carelessly into a bomb-box, and there were no shelves or cupboards for storage. I spent an hour on the telephone arranging for a filing cabinet and cupboards to be supplied, and they arrived in the afternoon. There was no time that day to inspect the site, and when I returned to Bungay I was most disturbed at the state of affairs in my new headquarters. It was clear that most of my time for the first week would be spent in organising the office, whereas I should have been out on the airfields supervising emergency repairs.

The teashop was still open when I reached my lodgings. The copper-headed girl asked me if I would like a cup of tea, and I thanked her and went into the small dining room. It occurred to me that after 24 hours I still did not know her name, and when she brought in the tray of tea and cakes I suggested rather timidly that as I should be living there for some time it would be helpful if we knew each other. She said that I could call her Mavis, but she did not appear willing to address me other than by my surname. If only the landladies of this world would apply a little domestic psychology to their treatment of lodgers, they would realise that the first essential in helping a young man to settle down in a home away from home is the abandonment of formality and the freer use of Christian names. However, my previous lodgings had been little different in this respect, although a certain formality was natural in my relations with elderly landladies. After tea I walked round the small town and discovered a most surprising feature. The population of Bungay is about 2,000, and no development has taken place for many years. I was astonished and very pleased, therefore, to find a modern cinema hidden in a side street amongst the old buildings. The Mayfair cinema, as it was called, was most luxuriously furnished and decorated, and concealed lighting struck a glamorous modern note after my eighteen months of life in oil-lit cottages. I bought a ticket for the evening show, for the novely of going to the cinema so very conveniently instead of sitting alone in a strange room appealed to me immediately. Saturday night therefore passed quickly and without embarrassment in my lodgings.

As I was a stranger to the district I saw no useful purpose in trying to visit any of my new stations, and the typist did not work on Sundays so that no progress could be made in the office. Before going to bed I told Mrs. Hall that she need not call me as I intended to enjoy the luxury of a lie-in. I awoke next morning to the sound of the church bells, and I was reading a book in bed when someone tapped on the bedroom door.

"Hello," I called. A man's voice answered.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Very much, thank you, come in," I replied and the door opened cautiously. A man aged somewhere between thirty five and forty walked in and placed a cup of tea on the bedside table. He had fair hair, rather inclined to be sandy, bushy eyebrows, and piercing deep-set eyes. His humorous mouth twitched as he stood silently by my bedside. He made no attempt to introduce himself but passed a remark about the fine day and withdrew rather nervously. I wondered who the stranger was and I felt sure that he was not a son of the family as he bore no resemblance to Mrs. Hall or Mavis.

After a time I shaved and dressed and went downstairs. Three Sunday papers were lying about the dining room, and I had read every one from front to back before anyone spoke to me. An excellent meal of bacon and eggs served as a breakfast-cum-lunch, and I had finished the meal and was wondering how I was to spend the rest of the day when Mrs. Hall came in and introduced the man who had brought me my morning tea. He was Jack Leonard, a Lowestoft man who came frequently at weekends, and, it transpired, on other occasions without notice, leaving after a day or two just as surprisingly as he had come. As my acquaintanceship grew with Jack I learned that he was by way of being an amateur electrician, decorator and odd-job man. On each occasion when he called, he produced a few odd lengths of wire and proceeded to rig up his version of an extension lamp or an improvement in the positioning of a switch or light. The house was a veritable cobweb of wires of all gauges, spliced together and knotted with wrappings of tape. Jack worked on the principle that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, with the result that in every room one could see a wire or wires darting diagonally across ceilings or walls.

Jack's passion for adventure with electrical circuits was not allowed to carry him beyond certain limits, however, and when Mrs. Hall considered that he had done enough in that direction she permitted him to experiment with pots of paint in various parts of the house. The result was that there was always an odour of fresh paint in the house, and always a risk of putting an unwary hand on places that had been quite dry a few hours earlier. I discovered that the Hall family derived great pleasure from the use of the paint pot, and new schemes of decoration were constantly cropping up.

On the Monday morning following my first weekend in Bungay I decided to spend as much time as possible on the airfield at Halesworth. Pickering and I drove round the perimeter track to inspect the repairs in progress whilst the Liberators were warming up for take-off on the day's mission. We had not gone far before we came across a bomber which had come to grief on its way round the track. One of the huge landing wheels had sunk hub-deep in an area of the track which had been excavated ready for re-concreting. As we stood by the scene the Commanding Officer's car drew up and the opportunity was taken to introduce me to the Colonel and his Air Executive Officer. They were obviously annoyed over the loss of an aircraft for a mission, and I saw that the question of repairs during active operations was causing them some concern. The reason for their growing anxiety became more apparent as the inspection proceeded. Here and there along the track small gangs were breaking up areas of bad concrete, with the result that no great length of perimeter was safe for taxying aircraft. One runway was out of commission also owing to repairs, and the Americans had decided to use one end of it for parking Liberators in order to avoid risks in taxying round to the concrete standing areas which were entered from the perimeter track.

Only one contractor was engaged on repair work, and I learned that a specialist firm named Fitzpatrick were due to commence large-scale repairs in a few days. A U.S. Engineer Battalion had been assigned a large area for repairs also, and already stocks of ballast were being built up in preparation for their arrival. It appeared that I had arrived just in time for the big push. To make any progress, however, it was clear that a definite programme would have to be prepared in conjunction the Unit, so that we could be given a whole section of concrete at one time, to be completed to a timetable.

The lay reader has perhaps become a little impatient at this point, as there is little of interest in large-scale concreting to appeal to anyone but a civil engineer. The early problems have been mentioned, however, to give a background to the general scene, because my relations with the Unit and my personal experiences were founded on the task in land - the execution of emergency repairs to keep the field in condition for flying. Tempers were frayed, and missions hung in the balance whilst apparently very ordinary and innocent looking areas of concrete were removed and replaced.

The Flying Control Officer at Halesworth was a Lieutenant, a man in his early twenties, and I was warned that he was a most unco-operative man. He refused access to runways at will, and ordered men off work in progress at an hour's notice. Gangs had wasted hours to suit the whim of the Lieutenant. Concrete repairs went on for twenty-four hours of the day and seven days a week to try to keep up with the rapid disintegration of the old concrete. The night gangs were not allowed on a runway until after the last aircraft had returned from a mission, and the new concrete which had been placed by the light of flood lamps was to be cleared eight hours before the morning mission was due to take off. We were therefore unable to take up very large areas because we ran the risk of not being able to complete their reinstatement in the short line available.

I met Lieutenant Buck, the Flying Control officer, and explained that we must have a firm programme and guaranteed areas in which to work. He was not easy to deal with, but at last we agreed on a length of track which could be closed for a few weeks. Emergency patches on runways would be repaired as before, and the Engineers and Fitzpatrick would concentrate on the track repairs. At the same time a portion of the runway was given to us so that we could transfer gangs there when an emergency necessitated their withdrawal from other areas.

A man named Thomas arrived as Agent for Fitzpatrick, and with him he brought the best large-scale concrete repair organisation I have ever seen. The key to the firm's success was a breaking machine for smashing up the old concrete. Hitherto ordinary pneumatic drills had been used on this type of work, but Fitzpatricks possessed a machine which could disintegrate fifty square yards of concrete eight inches thick in one minute. The wonder machine was called the Novo breaker, and it was essentially a lorry with a quick release winch on the back; the winch lifted and dropped a heavy steel monkey weight at the rate of one blow per second, and the shattering effect on the concrete was fascinating. Only two Novo breakers existed in the country, I was told, and their design was a closely-guarded secret. As a profit-making piece of plant the Novo probably had no equal, but I was more interested in its value to us than to the owners. I decided that the machine must be made available for use by all the repair organisations on the station, and after Thomas had settled down to work I approached him with my plan. The outcome was that very soon the Engineers, the maintenance contractor and Fitzpatrick were all sharing the use of the Novo, and large areas of new concrete were removed and replaced in about half the usual time.

I met Mr. Fitzpatrick a few days after his men had started at Halesworth. He was a keen, alert man, most co-operative and anxious to help, and I learned from Headquarters that he had been a very good friend to Air Ministry in that area. His fine organisation was operating on several stations, and his Novo breaker was keeping those stations going all at the same time. Without his work in large-scale repairs to runways there would have been many fields in East Anglia crippled just when they were most needed. One of those would have been Halesworth, without any doubt. Inefficient side drains on bad ground had allowed the subsoil under the concrete to collapse into mud, and the concrete was not of good enough quality to stand the weight of aircraft without a firm subgrade to support it.

The danger with the Novo breaker and the large repair organisation available was that we might break out great areas too far ahead of concreting, and make the airfield dangerous for aircraft. A long section of the perimeter track was closed to all traffic, and vehicles obliged to run on the grass on either side, with the result that mud conditions were appalling. Conferences were held almost daily between Lieutenant Buck, the Clerk of Works, and myself, and occasionally a meeting was called by the Colonel in his office to try to sort out the mess.

Halesworth was only one of a number of stations under my care, however, and after a week at my base I paid a visit to Beccles. The airfield lay within easy walking distance of the town, and was as yet unoccupied by any American or R.A.F. personnel. As I entered the new station I thought of Attlebridge, which had looked just as neat and new when I left. The perimeter track was shiny black with the tar dressing on the concrete; the grass was sparse over the recently-harrowed ground. A wind sock floated from a mast near the deserted Watch Office, and the only people on site were A.M.W.D. personnel. I met the Clerk of Works, a burly man named Jack Blaza, and we ran along the runways on a general inspection. The smooth unused concrete contrasted in my mind with the rapidly deteriorating areas at Halesworth, and I asked why the field had not been occupied. Blaza informed me that the U.S.A.A.F. had intended to use the base, but the station was not completed in time, and the small advance party of Americans had withdrawn. It seemed that Beccles was doomed to be a white elephant.

We drove to Lowestoft, where the old balloon sites vacated a few weeks earlier were awaiting derequisitioning. The barrage balloons were now on the south coast, forming a curtain barrage against flying bombs. We went on to the Air-Sea Rescue base, where the R.A.F. rescue vessels were moored, and from there our inspection took us to two isolated coastal Radar stations. The trip was most enjoyable, and I came home with the feeling that my duties to Halesworth were going to be at least varied and interesting.

Pickering did not think that I should be needed at the office over the weekend, and I returned to Bungay lodgings late on Saturday afternoon with the intention of relaxing whilst I had the opportunity. I changed into comfortable slippers after tea at four o'clock, and set about cleaning shoes in the yard. As I scraped the Halesworth mud from my shoes I heard the rumble of returning American bombers, and saw their silver bodies gliding across the clear sky. The noise died down, and I was preparing to take my finished work upstairs when a deep roar shook the air, and the old windows rattled under the vibration of an explosion. Somebody crashed, I thought, and forgot the incident; explosions were common in those days.

On the following day I arose early with the intention of learning more of the countryside around Bungay. Breakfast over, I walked into the yard and met the paper boy, who handed me the three Sunday papers and asked me if I had heard the explosion on the previous evening.

"Yes, I thought it was a Lib. crashing at Bungay," I replied.

"It was Metfield," said the paper boy, "a lot of bombs gone up; hardly a shop window's left in Halesworth."

Metfield was one of my stations, but I had not been able to visit it in my first week. I decided that perhaps I should be wise to go there and see if matters were serious, so I rang up Halesworth from a call box and ordered transport. The van collected me within half an hour and we made for Metfield across Bungay Common. There were no signs of damage as we entered the station, but I noticed Pickering's car stood outside the Clerk of Works' office. Pickering was standing at a drawing bench in shirt sleeves beside Platten, the Clerk of Works. Two U.S.A.A.F. officers were in the room, and all four were studying a plan of Bomb Stores.

When I enquired what was amiss, Pickering explained that an unknown quantity of high-explosive bombs had blown up in bomb Stores, and extensive damage had been caused. I got in the van and inspected the field. Two huge craters had been blown in the ground, and charred bombs were scattered amongst massive sheets of concrete and piles debris. A cornfield adjacent to the storage room had been stripped clean as if by a scythe, and there was no sign of the crop which had stood there. The next field appeared to be untouched but closer examination showed that although the stalks were still standing, not an ear of corn remained. A farmhouse on the edge of the Bomb Stores had been demolished. All the Nissen huts nearby had caved in, and a timber and asbestos armoury building on the airfield was a heap of matchwood. A hangar was standing with all the sheets blown off one side and a quarter of an acre of roof sheeting missing. Some of the large hangar doors were lying on the ground, the others hanging dangerously by one corner in their overhead tracks. A distant cottage had been stripped of its roof tiles, and its timbers stood out like the bleached ribs of a skeleton. Everywhere was the smell of burnt earth.

On returning to the office I was told that part of a bomb lorry had been picked up on the main runway, at a point almost a mile from the explosion. Search parties had been organised to pick up fragments from all runways, and to collect the large amount of T.N.T. which had been scattered over the site. An emergency meeting had been called in the Colonel's office, and we made our way to Station Headquarters wondering what would be the outcome of the grim occurrence.

As we filed into the Station Headquarters and down the narrow corridor I saw a lean man with closely cropped grey hair standing amongst a group of officers inside the meeting room doorway. It was my old enemy, Lieutenant-Colonel Seashore. He saw me approaching along the corridor, and a brief smile and nod indicated that he remembered me. There was no time for greetings, for Colonel Miller, the Commanding Officer, entered the room and took the chair. We placed ourselves in a semi-circle round the Colonel and the meeting commenced.

Representatives of the Bombardment Wing and 2nd Bombardment Division were there, as well as an officer from the District Engineer's Headquarters at Newmarket. The main question was how long the job of repair would take, and whether or not active operations could continue. Twelve Liberators had been rendered unfit for use by the explosion - mostly owing to twisted frames - so that the Group would have to fly with depleted numbers until replacements could be brought in. Access to the Bomb Stores was blocked by an old barn which had been shattered by the explosion. The ring road which served all the bomb storage areas had been blown up at two points. An unknown number of bombs had been buried in earth and debris. A certain amount of risk had to be taken, as disposal of the bombs would be a slow and delicate operation. The repairs were discussed and it was agreed to form a temporary connection between the sound lengths of road with tarmacadam, to clear the barn debris, and to pull down the Nissen component stores and stack their contents under tarpaulins whilst new huts were erected on the old bases. Two of the four large bomb-storage areas had been rendered unserviceable so that bombs would have to be stored on the open ground wherever possible.

After the meeting I made a point of speaking to Seashore. He was polite but cool, and I wondered how we should stand with each other at Metfield. Back at the office I asked the Clerk of Works how he found the Colonel, and was informed that Metfield was a very happy station, with the A.M.W.D. on excellent terms with the unit. I met the Utilities Officer, a Captain Smith, and we went together to the Officers' Mess for lunch. The Mess was clean and tidy, the atmosphere cordial, and the food prepared and served with care and good taste. As I sat at the table Colonel Seashore came over and asked if we could inspect the Bomb Stores together after lunch, to see what could be done to hasten the emergency repairs. I agreed to join the party of inspection, and when the meal was finished the Clerk of Works and myself returned to the A.M.W.D. office to await the party of officers. Seashore and Smith drove up in a jeep with the two other officers, and the Clerk of Works and I got in the car and followed them round the track. We alighted at the entrance to the Stores, and exchanged a few words regarding the debris blocking our way. Our small vehicles were able to get round the obstruction by running on the grass, and we cruised slowly along the concrete road towards the scene of the explosion. There we left our vehicles and picked our way cautiously over the charred earth, avoiding an area which had been flagged off, until we stood on the top of a bomb stores earth traverse. We agreed the route to be taken by the temporary tarmacadam link which was to restore the ring road to a workable condition, and a discussion followed regarding the permanent repairs we should need. One complete bomb storage area was required, and we decided to set out the new roads to it so that they skirted the edges of the two craters. The second area of concrete standings could be formed out of one of the two which had been put out of action, but this could not be done until the buried bombs had been dug out or steamed out and the larger crater partly filled in.

A sudden shout interrupted our discussion, and we swung around to see a handful of G.I.s running from an incendiary bomb store. A sheet of white flame sprang up, and we ran down the traverse and across the field to a friendly ditch, expecting to hear an explosion as we scampered over the spiky stubble that had once been corn. Seashore was nearest to me as we made for cover, and he picked up his long legs like a young colt as he galloped over the uneven ground. We crouched in the ditch, panting with the sudden exertion, and emerged after a few moments to see if the bomb had burned out. Platten, the Clerk of Works, was a little distance away up the ditch, and he called out to say that the coast was clear. As we walked back to our former vantage point we saw the G.I.s playing on the smoking bomb with snow extinguishers, and it was clear that the danger of further explosions was still possible. A large body of ground personnel came on site and ranged themselves along one side of the field where we were going to construct the new concrete standings and road. They walked slowly and very carefully across the stubble, picking up yellow scraps of T.N.T. and half-burnt anti-personnel bombs, stacking them every few yards under the protection of red warning flags. We were told that the small anti-personnel bombs were a source of anxiety, as they were fused and would explode at a touch. As we stood on the traverse two officers walked past us, each with one of the anti-personnel bombs balanced carefully in gloved hands. The officers were specialists in bomb disposal and Platten and I had a few words with them concerning the work we wanted to start. They agreed that men could enter the Bomb Stores on the following day to lay tarmacadam, but they were dubious about starting work on the new storage area. T.N.T. and damaged bombs still lay scattered over that part of the stores. They decided that temporary passes should be issued to authorised workmen, and pickets would be posted at the entrances to check all persons entering the danger area.

We returned to the office. Seashore asked me what I thought of our prospects, and I promised that the tarmacadam temporary road would be in by the end of the following day. The Group would thus be able to resume operations. After that I said that progress on the new stores would depend on whether or not the bomb disposal people would let us work. We needed at least two excavators and a bulldozer, and plant of that kind could not be let loose amongst piles of debris which might contain bombs. Seashore told me to work closely with him and tell him of any hold-up which might occur, and this I agreed to do. It seemed to me that the Ground Executive Officer was a different man from when I first knew him. Remembering our undignified flight for cover when the incendiary burst during our inspection, I realised it at least the Colonel would not be able to stand on false dignity with me again. Perhaps we had met in circumstances which had drawn us more closely in sympathy but I am inclined to think that Seashore had developed a better understanding of English methods since leaving Attlebridge. Whatever the reason, we became quite good friends as the days passed.

A gang of workmen started on the demolition of the damaged buildings, and another gang entered the Bomb Stores to prepare the site for tarmacadam. Pickering and I went home after arranging to go to Newmarket on the following day, for a full report would be required by Headquarters.

We set off to Newmarket early on the next morning, and met the Superintending Engineer. He sent us back with Mr. Hill and a Major from the District Engineer's office to go over our requirements on the site. On arrival at Metfield we heard the story of the explosion, pieced together from information given by the only survivor. A number of bomb-laden lorries had arrived at the Bomb Stores from the nearby central dump. All the station ordnance personnel were in their Mess having a meal, and the drivers of the lorries had decided to unload their cargoes unaided. They scorned the use of cranes, preferring rather to roll the unfused bombs to the tails of their lorries and allow them to drop off. They chose an open area of ground for this risky business, and proceeded to unload their 500-pounders. Apparently the ordinary type of bomb could be handled with comparative safety in this way, but the bombs they had brought were of a new and very sensitive type. One exploded, the others were blown up with it, and a number of bombs must have been thrown a hundred yards or more into the end of one of the large storage dumps. The lorries and drivers disappeared in the explosion and the sole survivor escaped death simply because he was standing behind a tall stack of bombs in a nearby dump. He was deafened and suffered severe shock. Six drivers were killed; in fact no trace of them was ever found.

As we went over the site once more I listed my requirements for Hill's benefit, and he told me where I could obtain hutting and the necessary plant. At the end of the day he instructed Pickering to leave Metfield to me, as it would be a full-time job for one man to survey and set out the new work and arrange for men and materials. Pickering agreed to run Halesworth until he left, and it was as well that there were two of us for the next few weeks,

Before we left the station that day the tarmacadam road was largely completed, and by the following day I had been able to get two excavators and a bulldozer on the site. Labour was drawn from Beccles to swell the force at the scene of the explosion, and by Tuesday we had ninety men in the Bomb Stores. Flying had been resumed, and the station was as near to normal as conditions would permit. We were blessed with wonderful sunny weather, and I was brown and very fit with the continual exercise and sunshine as I worked in shirt sleeves with tape and instruments. There was a hitch one day when the bomb disposal officers suddenly closed the area, but Seashore made them relax their safety precautions when I argued that we must share the risk if we wanted progress. I had a fright on another day when I saw the bulldozer working on the edge of the large crater, pushing debris into the bottom. The bomb disposal personnel bad borrowed the machine to clear the debris, and a G.I. driver was thundering up and down the pile with obvious enjoyment. Seashore was with me at the time, and as soon as he saw what was happening he rushed over and told the G.I. to take the bulldozer away. 2000-pound bombs were buried just beneath the spot where the machine had been running, and at any moment the whole dump might have gone up in the air.

Pickering was due to leave in short time, and he took me to Beccles to see his house . The semi-detached property was furnished, and though it badly needed decorations it was an excellent place for my wife and myself. I decided to take it over from Pickering when he left, and we made all necessary arrangements with the Agents before other house-hunters heard of the coming vacancy. I wrote to tell my wife of our good fortune, but she was cautious in her questioning after her earlier experience in Diss. When I pointed out that the house possessed a large refrigerator, geysers over kitchen sink and bath, and a telephone, however, she became as enthusiastic as I, and we set about the arrangements after I had taken the precaution of checking with Headquarters as to the nature of my transfer. I was given a written understanding from Air Ministry that the posting was for the duration; it appeared that we ought to be able to stay at least six months before we were moved again.

The work at Metfield had got well into its stride, and all the known bombs had been rooted up, steamed out or exploded without casualties. Pickering made final arrangements for departure, and I told Mrs. Hall that I should be leaving soon for Beccles. Before I left, however, daughter Mary and her friend Queenie came to spend a week's leave at the Tea Rooms, and my last week there consisted of a series of hilarious parties. Mary was an A.T.S. Corporal, Queenie a Sergeant in the same Company, and the two girls knew how to have a good time. Mrs. Hall had come to know a number of American boys from nearby stations, chiefly owing to her business in the teashop, and the G.I.s had been in the habit of calling on her when in the town. Mavis was friendly with an American from Hethel, and he came for the weekend with a friend named Mike. I was still very much "Mr. Bailey" until the first party, but Mary and Queenie and the G.I.s soon put an end to formality, and by midnight we were dancing on the cleared floor of the small dining room, three couples jostling each other in an area of perhaps three square yards until we were exhausted with laughing and knocking each other about. Mrs. Hlll sat by the fire and laughed until the tears streamed down her face when a hot tune blared over the radio and Mike and Queenie concocted a home-made jitterbug whilst we banged and blew on improvised instruments. I remember that I sat by the table, very red and hot, with my hair tousled, in my shirt sleeves, blowing into an empty bottle to the beat of the number. In typical American style the party developed into a rag, ties being pulled awry and shirts jerked out of trouser tops, so that any hope of living at the Hall's house after that night with any semblance of formality had vanished when at length we went to bed. The change was for the better, and I was sorry to leave at the end of the week.

In order to got the Beccles house straightened up before my wife arrived I moved in a week ahead of her, and one day Mrs. Hall, Mavis and a married daughter named Ivy came down to Beccles in their pinafores and scrubbed the floors. That was a strange thing for a former landlady to do; but it was the sort of thing the Halls would do without thinking. A daily help called Amy, a huge rawboned spinster in her middle thirties, went with the house and had been to clean for three half-days each week ever since the owner had left. I kept her on, and our home was waiting for my wife to arrive, all spick and span and smelling faintly of carbolic, when I went to bed on the eve of my trip to the north.

It was natural that I should not sleep too well on that night. The excitement of the situation, the anxiety lest I should not waken at 5.30 in time to catch the early train - there was no alarm clock in the house - both kept me awake for some long time. I listened to the rain beating on the window, and was about to close my eyes at last when the wail of a siren roused me to wakefulness again. As I listened I could hear the distant throb of an engine. It was not the steady hum of a fighter, nor the wavering roar of a bomber. As the volume of sound increased I realised that a flying bomb was heading for the town. The Quantity Surveyor at Horham had told me about the pilotless plane after a nerve-wracking experience in London one weekend, but this was my first experience of the bomb over the Halesworth area.

The flying bomb seemed to be coming directly towards the house, and my hair stood stiff in the nape of my neck as the roar increased. At any moment the noise might stop, and then would be the time to dive beneath the sheets. I raised myself on an elbow and listened. Suddenly the windows rattled, and a yellow light flashed up from the wet road and illuminated the bedroom through the thin curtains as the bomb rushed over the house. It was so low that I was sure the chimneys would foul the bomb before it cleared the town. I listened, but the sound died away and I breathed with relief as I settled down to sleep.

On the following day I was up in good time and caught the homeward train. The quantity of luggage which my wife had accumulated was staggering, and she had decided also to bring her bicycle. I was dubious about crossing London with the machine as well as the cases, but when the day of departure arrived we pushed the cycle to the station with the largest case on top and somehow managed to get into the train. On arrival at Euston after an uneventful journey we decided that the only way to get the cycle across to Liverpool Street was by taxi. We took our stand by the taxi rank and waited whilst prospective fares rushed hither and thither, jumping on the running boards as the vehicles drew up to the kerb. During a short lull in the game I made a dash for a taxi and piloted it to the heap of luggage over which my wife stood guard. The taxi driver scratched his head when he saw the bicycle, but I suggested the roof and we laid the machine on top, lashed it down with a luggage belt, and piled the cases inside. Once at Liverpool Street we left the articles with a porter and joined the long queue outside the ticket barrier. The train was packed, but we found two seats and settled down for the last stage of the journey, leaving to Providence and the porter the matter of the cycle and the cases.

Rain was still falling steadily in Beccles when we left the station and trundled the luggage to our new home, using the bicycle to take the strain from aching arms. A fire was burning in the sitting room, and we prepared a hasty meal before unpacking the cases. For the first time since our wedding day my wife and I had a home for our two selves. The furniture belonged to someone else, but that was a small point. The house was comfortable, it was set in a garden, and we were together. If only there were no flying bombs and if the Air Ministry kept their word about the posting, we could finish out the War in Beccles. How much longer, I thought as I lay in the darkness before falling asleep, how much longer would it last?