Yeovil at war
On the railways during the war
The wartime recollections of Bill Froude
These are the wartime Yeovil recollections of the late Bill Froude, adapted from his autobiography "What a Life" and reproduced here courtesy of his son, Roger Froude.
"My main
ambition was to
join the service
of the Great
Western Railway
which was, at
that time,
reputed to be
the finest of
its kind in the
world. I was
fourteen years
of age when I
left school
therefore I had
to wait two
years before I
could apply for
a job on the
railway. My
Father was
insistent that I
learn a trade.
My sister
Winnie’s husband
was a
charge-hand
fitter at
Westland
Aircraft in
Yeovil, so he
used his
influence with
the apprentice
supervisor to
get me in as an
apprentice. I
hated it.
I was placed in
the sheet metal
shop to train in
that trade. Me a
tin smith? - not
likely - I had
other ideas. I
was so miserable
in that job that
some days I used
to play truant
and cycle off to
somewhere like
Castle Cary,
which was the
nearest place on
the Great
Western main
line Paddington
to Penzance.
Trains like the
Cornish Rivera,
and the Torbay
Express, passed
through at very
high speeds. But
I soon had to
discontinue
those little
jaunts as my
wage packet
suffered - the
wages where
terrible anyway.
Well, I put up
with this job
for about a year
then began to
pester my father
to join the
railway.
My father was
the Chief Signal
Engineer
stationed at
Yeovil Pen Mill
station and was
responsible for
a large area,
from Frome to
Weymouth, so of
course he had
quite a lot of
influence. He
eventually
arranged an
interview for me
with the Station
Master at Pen
Mill. This
interview was
successful,
subject to my
passing an
interview with
the
Superintendent
of the Line, and
a medical
examination, the
next week.
I passed on both
counts and began
as a trainée
telegraphist at
9am on 10 July
1939. I arrived
that morning,
very nervous as
the Station
Master
introduced me to
Fred, the
telegraphist I
would be
replacing, once
I was trained by
him and had
passed my exams.
Fred handed me
the Morse code
manual and said
"There you go
William get
stuck into that
for a start". I
took Fred at his
word, and within
a couple of
weeks, became a
learner reader
on the "Single
needle"
instrument. It
took a lot of
hours of
intensive study
but it always
amazes me how
quickly one can
attain a very
high standard of
efficiency, when
performing
something that
you love doing.
Even the smoky
atmosphere of
the station
itself gave me
one hell of a
kick, so I made
rapid progress
and within a few
weeks was
reading the
Morse instrument
at high speed.
I went to
Bristol Temple
Meads Station
for my final
exam. I was
directed to the
Superintendent
of the Line's
offices, which
were situated
outside the
station itself
over a stone
bridge, with a
uniformed man on
the door - his
head adorned
with the most
gorgeous brown
top hat with a
cream coloured
band - obviously
representing the
Great Western
colours. I was
tested by the
Superintendent
for about an
hour and finally
he stood up and
held out his
hand to me "Well
lad I'm pleased
to tell you, you
have passed with
flying colours.
Well done, I
hope to see you
in a signal box
in my district
in a few years’
time. Here is
your badge and a
ten shilling
note.”
The month was
September 1939,
war was declared
on Germany and
all train
services were
cut to
accommodate
routes for
special trains
to evacuate
thousands of
school children
from the large
cities and towns
such as London,
Birmingham,
Manchester and
many others. The
Great Western
bore the brunt
of this
operation, as it
served much of
rural England &
Wales, which was
in easy access
from the main
cities.
During this
period of time I
was kept very
busy, with Morse
messages being
sent and
received in the
hundreds during
the course of a
day. A special
code had been
set up for the
different types
of trains,
stations and
strategic
railway military
areas, so I had
to learn all
these various
codes. It meant
burning the
midnight oil
again, as the
Station Master
and I were the
only people
allowed to be
conversant with
these codes and
we were among
the first to
sign the
Official Secrets
Act. The main
problem for me
was the Station
Master had a
poor memory and
was continually
calling for me
to decipher the
codes.
By October 1939
the evacuation
of school
children, and
some adults, was
well under way.
I remember train
loads of them
arriving at Pen
Mill, being
shepherded and
sorted by local
teachers and
voluntary
workers. Most of
them from the
east end of
London. It was a
sad sight, the
poor kids had
never been away
from home or
their parents.
Later they were
marched around
the streets of
Yeovil, each
house had a
knock on the
door and the
occupants asked
to take in as
many children as
possible.
The railways
were now faced
with a serious
staff shortage
as this was
before the
exemption law
for operational
staff was
brought into
being. Many men
had been called
up for military
service in the
early days,
without any
thought as to
problems that
materialised in
the operation of
essential
civilian
services, the
war effort could
not run without
them.
The war was very
quiet throughout
those first
months, until
the bombs
started to drop.
Immediately
plans had to be
made with regard
to warning all
the stations and
signal boxes, so
the staff were
alerted to the
air raid danger.
I was asked by
the Station
Master to keep
the telegraph
office open for
twelve hours
every day to
receive air-raid
calls on the
national phone
from the
Observer Corps.
Then I had to
pass these
warnings on to
all stations
from Frome to
Dorchester, and
all signal boxes
in that area
from 10am until
10pm each day,
Saturdays and
Sundays
included. From
the next day I
became the area
controller for
the air- raid
warning system.
The procedure
was that the
first air-raid
warning ‘yellow’
informed me that
enemy aircraft
were within a 25
mile area and to
be prepared. I
would then
inform all
stations etc.
under my
control. This
was followed by
air-raid warning
‘red’ meaning
enemy aircraft
immediately in
your proximity.
This I then
transmitted over
a railway phone
circuit set
aside for this
purpose, these
phones had to be
attended at all
times, and
immediately.
On one occasion
I was busy
transmitting a
yellow warning
to all stations
along the
Taunton branch
line. Since this
was sent over a
communal line
any person on
that line could
cut into your
conversation.
This was done by
a signalman at
Cogload
Junction, a box
situated out in
the wilds of the
Somerset levels.
He shouted "Bill
call the police,
I've got a
bloody German
airman here in
the box with
me." I asked
"Are you OK
George?" He
answered "Yes,
I'm alright,
he's sat here
drinking a cup
of tea. He gave
me his gun when
he walked in.
Blimey mate,
he's only a
kid." I called
the police, they
in turn informed
the military,
who collected
him. His war was
over. Apparently
he bailed out of
his aircraft and
landed in a
field opposite
Cogload box.
Unhurt, he saw
the box and made
his way to it.
During the
evacuation of
Dunkirk in 1940
the code for
this massive
operation was
"Dynamo". Many
of the regular
train services
were either
altered or
cancelled to
allow routes to
be found for
these special
trains
transporting
hundreds of
troops from the
ports to various
holding camps
and hospitals
throughout the
country.
Houndstone camp
at Yeovil was
one such camp.
Many of these
trains arrived
at Pen Mill and
these men were
in a pitiful
state, some
dressed only in
paper bags, and
many were
starving as they
hadn’t eaten for
days. Some were
shell shocked
and were
assisted off the
trains by medics
and Red Cross
nurses. Army
ambulances were
waiting outside
the station for
all the wounded,
army doctors
running from one
to another. The
voluntary
services like
the Salvation
Army, the Red
Cross and the
Women’s
Voluntary
Service were all
there doing a
wonderful
service,
providing food
and hot drinks
for those men
whilst they
waited for their
transport. The
atmosphere was
one of silent
dejection as if
this was not
real. It was
almost one of
total misery, I
had never
experienced
anything like it
before
30 September
1940 was the day
I thought my
life was going
to end. At about
4pm, while I was
busy on the
telephones
sending air raid
warnings ‘red’
to stations up
and down the
line, all hell
was let loose.
The noise of
bombs whistling
down, the
station
buildings
shaking, doors
slamming, the
screaming of
passengers
outside was
indescribable. I
ran on to the
platform and
helped the
station staff
usher the
passengers into
the waiting room
shouting at them
to lay on the
floor. I
returned to my
office to find
Ernie the parcel
porter crouched
under the desk;
he seemed very
agitated, so I
asked him what
the trouble was
(what a bloody
stupid thing to
ask when we were
likely to be
blown to
smithereens at
any moment). He
replied "My wife
is having a baby
this afternoon".
So, as his house
was only yards
from the
station, I
suggested that
perhaps he
should be with
her. He replied
"Oh she’ll be
all right, the
nurse is with
her so there
shouldn’t be any
problem". I
murmured
something in
reply and he
added "After all
lad, it is the
thirteenth
child, but
perhaps I'd
better go". I
just stood there
flabbergasted;
however his wife
had twins - so
that made
fourteen in all.
We were informed
later that the
massive load of
bombs intended
for the Westland
aircraft
factory, missed
us and landed on
Sherborne, and
caused enormous
loss of life and
damage to the
town. Apparently
the RAF fighters
had intercepted
the German
bombers over
Yeovil so they
turned for the
coast and, in
doing so, they
jettisoned their
bombs which fell
on Sherborne.
Courtesy of
Roger Froude
Pen Mill staff photographed in 1941. At left is Joe the porter, at centre is telegraphist Bill Froude and at right is the signalman (name unknown).
During 1941 the
railways were a
prime target for
the German
bombers,
therefore many
stations, yards
and signal boxes
were attacked
and many railway
men lost their
lives. I
experienced a
few nasty
moments when I
became a
signalman later
that year.
Signal boxes
were becoming
prime targets
for the lone
raider,
especially on
moonlit nights,
as the rails
gleamed bright
so the pilots
followed them
easily. Then
suddenly they
came upon a
signal box stuck
up in the air
with enough
light to fix
their sights on
and bang bang
bang - too bad
for the
signalman. I had
two very
frightening
experiences,
where I had to
take cover by
diving outside
and crouching in
the bank of the
river at the
rear of the box
while the pilot
shot out the
windows. I
finished my
shift dressed in
overcoat and
gloves and my
mate who
relieved me had
to do the same,
until the
builders arrived
to repair the
damage. Usually
these repairs
were carried out
by special gangs
made up of
skilled
carpenters,
bricklayers and
roofers, etc.
who were rushed
to the scene
either by road
or rail -
whichever was
quickest. When I
arrived for my
next shift all
was normal.
After a number
of signalmen
where killed,
including some
of my old
friends, the
powers that be
decided that
some protection
should be
installed in
signal boxes.
This took the
form of a six
foot high, heavy
steel box,
similar to a
night
watchman’s' hut.
It had spy slots
to enable the
signalman to
observe the
instruments, but
how you pulled
the levers was
anyone’s guess."