The Hopkins Manuscript

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the first week of April Sapper Evans arrived, and quickly became the hero of the village. Sapper Evans was a dynamic little Welshman, detailed to assist the village of Beadle in completing and fitting out its dugout.

Not until Sapper Evans appeared amongst us on that April evening did I realise the wonderful organisation that was working for us so rapidly and secretly behind the scenes. While the newspapers kept us amused with skilfully composed articles about the interesting and exciting time that we were shortly to enjoy, the Government was throwing every ounce of its giant resources into the grim preparations for a fantastic gamble against death.

The Army, Navy and Air Force had been mobilised into one huge Defence Corps: machine-guns, aircraft and battleships had been laid aside, and the implements of mining had taken their place. For the first time in history the threat of war had ceased to exist and the whole of Europe – the whole of the world – was in alliance against the same dread enemy.

Every skilled mechanic, and thousands of semi-skilled soldiers, sailors and airmen, were rapidly passed through a ‘school of dugout construction’, and as they qualified they were drafted into the cities, towns and villages of Great Britain. The large cities received a Defence Corps of twenty or thirty men under specially trained officers who mobilised the civilian volunteers, and even the smallest village like Beadle received one man who thoroughly understood the task ahead.

We were lucky in getting Sapper Evans. Not only was he a dynamo of energy, but he had tact as well, and a cheery understanding of men that gave all of us renewed inspiration and energy. Although he was a sapper in the Royal Corps of Engineers, he came from South Wales and mining was in his blood. He so obviously enjoyed his work that all who came into contact with him were infected, and gave of their best.

He arrived with a lorry containing three immensely impressive steel doorways and sliding door panels for the entrances to our dugout. They were airtight and watertight: their dimension had been announced with the original orders three months ago, and the openings to our dugout had been made accordingly. With the help of the blacksmith and his son, Sapper Evans began fitting these doors on the night of his arrival. He worked all night by the light of car lamps trained upon the entrances and by next morning the work of cementing them into position had begun.

Nobody in living memory had worked all night in Beadle, and it created a great impression of importance and urgency. He explained that he wanted everything finished well before the 3rd of May so that we could have a full dress rehearsal before the night.

Every man and woman in the village now volunteered their help, and Sapper Evans divided us into three shifts to work in eight-hour spells, day and night. Dr Hax and Pawson, the retired police inspector, who were on the Dugout Committee, and Mr Murdoch, the engineer in charge until the sapper’s arrival, were inclined to be a little difficult at first, for they felt their authority had been somewhat rudely usurped by this bustling little Welshman, but Evans soon won them over by putting each in charge of a shift. The Vicar, in the meantime, was perfectly happy running about with chewing gum and a bottle of fruit drops for relieving thirst.

One day I was promoted from my wheelbarrow to help Sapper Evans and a local electrician to lay the electric cable from the village to the dugout, and this enabled me to make my first visit to the interior.

I was greatly impressed by its size and workmanship. The entrance was narrow to take the steel doors, but as one descended, the steps widened out and gave a wonderful feeling of safety and spaciousness.

The rooms themselves were thirty feet beneath the hillside and consisted of three large compartments, one for women, one for the men, and one as a kind of ‘control room’ to contain the oxygen supply, stores, water and lavatories. I was astonished at the amount of work accomplished in the last four months and felt a little ashamed at my original attitude of contempt towards it all.

It may seem strange to say how thoroughly I enjoyed those vigorous, purposeful days. I was on the shift that worked from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon and I never felt so well in all my life. Class distinctions and petty jealousies were forgotten, and there was a superb comradeship between us as we toiled side by side in wind and rain and sunlight. The women brought lunch to their men at midday. At first I used to bring a small attaché case with sandwiches and a bottle of cider, but later on, in order to be completely at one with my comrades, I got my housekeeper to bring my lunch as the other women did.

I would return at four o’clock for my tea. I would rest for an hour, and then at six o’clock would stroll down and join the ‘timber club’.

This curious title arose from a pile of timber that had been cut for the strutting of the dugout. It became the habit, on fine evenings, for the men off duty to stroll back to Burgin Park and sit upon this pile of timber in the shade of the beech trees, throw jokes at the men at work and smoke their pipes and talk. There was something very attractive and romantic about that gathering in the twilight: the glow of pipes against the darkness of the trees and the drone of sleepy conversation. The attraction was increased by the casks of ale that old Lord Burgin had ordered to be kept in readiness for the thirsty villagers. Primarily it was there for the men at work, but one night Lord Burgin had come down in person to view the work, had seen the ‘timber club’ and asked them to drink a glass with him each night whether he were there or not.

Barely four weeks now remained before the critical night and by this time not only every man in Beadle, but almost every man in England had been partly withdrawn from his normal occupation and was engaged upon some work in connection with defence against the coming cataclysm.

Much of this work was probably futile in the light of scientific reasoning – even the dugouts themselves, however deep, however strong, were like protecting a wine glass against a cannon ball with a piece of tissue paper. But the Government was alive to the vital need for occupation, and made us believe that our dugouts were giving us a ‘fifty-fifty’ chance. They organised ‘flood defence’ upon the sea coasts and river banks: ‘storm defence’ in removing structures such as large hoardings, and dangerous trees: they were ‘stream-lining’ the whole country against tornado, and although the work done was barely one-millionth part of all that would be needed, it provided the vital, sanity-protecting medicine of hard physical work.

I have not previously mentioned the Misses Cheesewright, for they were relatively minor figures in the life of Beadle. The Misses Cheesewright owned the little drapery store at the corner beside the Village Hall. They had inherited the business from their father, but their prosperity had always been handicapped by the difficulty experienced by their customers in opening the shop door. In 1897 old Mr Cheesewright had fitted a cumbersome rubber contrivance to the bottom of the door to prevent draughts, and for fifty years the business of his two hardworking daughters had languished in consequence. When you pushed the door the rubber contrivance was caught by the mat, and only the most powerful inhabitants of Beadle were able to shop with the Misses Cheesewright. The rest were forced to take the bus into Mulcaster, but one morning, after years of unfailing hope, the Misses Cheesewright enjoyed a glorious week of boom business.

Sapper Evans announced that the cavities between the timber framework of the dugout and the chalk outer walls were to be packed with every kind of shock-resisting material that could be obtained. The villagers were instructed to bring old clothes, old blankets, old sacking – anything that would help to prevent a fall of chalk from bursting the timber frames. The village responded generously, but the cavities in the roof and walls of the stairways still remained unfilled.

The Dugout Committee, who were now in possession of Government funds for all emergency, thereupon purchased the whole of the Misses Cheesewright’s stock of soft goods.

The shop door, for the first time in Beadle history, was wedged fully and permanently open for a whole morning while a lorry was loaded up with bales of cloth, a vast quantity of outmoded ladies’ petticoats and knickers, some black shawls unsold upon the occasion of Queen Victoria’s funeral and other articles whose names have even faded from the modern dictionaries. I liked the Misses Cheesewright and was very happy at this belated stroke of fortune.