War Years at North Baddesley, 1940-45

I went to live in North Baddesley Manor House at the age of fifteen in 1940. The circumstances were as follows.

My father, William A. (Billy) Hibberd, was Accountant to the coal merchants, J.R. Wood & Company. They were bombed out of their premises at Above Bar in Southampton and then managed to rent the Manor House, which up to that time had been occupied by an ex-Guards officer, Captain Watson. The Chamberlayne Estate granted an unspecified lease.

As it was unwise to leave any building empty overnight during the Blitz years, it was agreed that certain of J.R. Wood’s personnel should live on site. Accordingly, a Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, whose son was in the Navy, moved in, as did Mr. Hooper’s secretary and the three Hibberds - mother (Annie), father and myself. Each family had to fit into existing rooms and use the furniture already there. All our own possessions went into store.

The only alterations made to accommodate the new regime at the Manor House were in the ballroom (the large room extending at the rear of the house). There, about eight typists worked. They travelled daily by bus, mostly from Southampton, one at least from as far away as Totton. Sometimes air raids made their journeying hazardous and their evening return home was often very slow.

The journey to Southampton was accomplished in an ancient bus known as “The Blue Horror”. This started at Hursley and was renowned for its lateness, for its weak floor - through which a sack of potatoes once disappeared - and for its frequent breakdowns. Overcrowding may have contributed to the latter, since all seats and gangways were packed, some passengers sitting on others’ laps.

The Hibberd Accommodation and the Home Guard Platoon
Mother and father had the bedroom at the back left corner of the main house, overlooking the church, and their sitting room was to the left of the front door.

There was a locally known story that a child who was supposed to have been killed haunted the house. My mother twice claimed to have heard heavy footsteps and a baby crying as she was coming down the stairs, but no one else in the house was in a suitable place to share her experience.

My room was reached from the top landing and down a few steps. It was situated over the open archway, which gave access to the stables under the coach-house rooms. It was the nearest room to the main house. As well as the door reached from the landing mentioned, this room had another door opposite. Kept locked, it gave immediate access to the archway below and for this reason my bedroom was also the arsenal for the local Home Guard! This was no small store. Grenades, sten guns and rifles were there in abundance, besides boxes of ammunition. At the time it seemed novel and important rather than dangerous. I actually slept over boxes of ammunition, ready for the Baddesley Home Guard platoon to rush in and collect should invasion occur.

My father was the equivalent of an RSM in the platoon, which was headed by a farmer, Mr. Lister of Manor Farm. I remember the Home Guard helping with the harvest on John Lister’s farm. Besides paying all those who helped, Mr. Lister supplied an excellent ‘harvest home” which we enjoyed in the platoon hut on his land. No questions were asked about where the bountiful amount of food had come from. There I had my first taste of beer, which I have seldom drunk since.

Incidentally, a rather eccentric member of the Home Guard, a local poultry farmer, had a Vickers machine gun mounted on the sidecar of a motorbike. That was the mobile element of our platoon and was ridden on specific exercises. Its effectiveness was rather doubtful. Perhaps its threat was greater to the friendly troops than to the enemy.

I did not spend all my days at the Manor House. My school, Taunton’s School of Southampton, was evacuated to Bournemouth. However, I spent all my holidays in Baddesley and term-time weekends also. I would play a Saturday afternoon football match in Bournemouth and then cycle home to Baddesley immediately afterwards for the rest of the weekend. Frequently I travelled through the New Forest in air raids. On Mondays I rose at 6.00am in order to ride back for the beginning of the school day. Whatever their fears for my safety, my parents, to their everlasting credit as I now realise, displayed remarkable calm - even when I was delayed an hour or more by a flat tyre.

In 1943 I joined the RAF and thereafter spent my leaves at Baddesley.

Farming in North Baddesley
Body Farm, opposite the Manor House, gave me my first taste of farming, and I spent much of my spare time helping out there. In the 1940’s the Gradidge family ran Body Farm. Bill Gradidige had ten children, five girls and five boys. Incredibly and memorably, one daughter married a Mr. Head, one son married a Miss Boot, another a Miss Foot and yet another a Miss Legg, while a fourth, Horace, married a Miss Coffin.

Mr. Gradidge grew corn in a field behind the hollow way that bounds the present recreation field. Here I helped with the threshing and the building of straw ricks, which were set against the trees. On one occasion a seventy-year-old farm worker by the name of Solly, who was working on top of a thirty-foot high rick, nearly came to grief. The rick collapsed and he only saved himself by clinging on to the top of one of the trees from which he had to be rescued.

Working with the Gradidges was very varied. Mr. Gradidge had grazing rights on Baddesley Common, where I also helped with the cutting of rushes for thatching. These were loaded onto a cart driven by “Charl” Mack, father of a large family. Once again the elderly Solly was in trouble. He and I were loading “pooks” by long handled hay prongs, Solly standing atop the load. Charl, a great gabbler was supposed to say “Hold tight” to let Solly know that he was about to start the cart and that he should balance himself against the prong handle. On this occasion Charl was so busy chattering that he forgot to give the warning, instead instructing the horse to “Get up”. Poor Solly performed a perfect backward roll and poised in the most remarkable handstand on the back of the cart - he was seventy remember. Realising his mistake, Charl yelled, “Hold tight” and this stopped the horse, as a result of which Solly fell back into the rushes and was saved from a very nasty fall. He emerged stuttering but unhurt.

Baddesley Common, like all open spaces, was regarded as an invasion hazard and poles, like telegraph poles, were erected to stop any aircraft from landing there. About 1943, when fear of invasion had faded, I helped to take them down. This was done by digging stepped trenches from about eight feet away and lowering the poles into them. Decoy lights were also installed on the Common to make enemy bombers think they were town lights. However, they were never bombed, so clearly deceived no one.

One day in 1943 I was near Baddesley Common walking back to the farm, leading some horses. It was late evening and suddenly I heard a beautiful solo voice singing an operatic aria and then joined by a chorus. This was repeated and I realised that the song was coming from a group of Italian prisoners of war. They were cleaning ditches, a job often allocated to them and much at variance with the beauty of their music.

We looked from my bedroom window one morning on a sorry sight. Six cows belonging to Mr. Lister, of Home Guard fame, were lying dead in the churchyard. They had got in and eaten the yew. They were dead before Mr. Lister had even missed them and were unfit for human consumption, a terrible loss in times of rationing.

I have fond memories, though, of the church itself, where stirring sermons were preached. The organ was hand-pumped by an old chap who frequently fell asleep. On more than one occasion he had to be woken up as the hymn faded away.

Two old gamekeepers, brothers named Andrews, lived in the Flexford Road. One was a head keeper and lived at the keeper’s cottage opposite the entrance to Knightwood Farm. I often went out rabbiting with them, joined also by a rat catcher, whose name I now forget but who always dressed in a hard “dickey” instead of a shirt. He was one of the great unwashed and had the most remarkable right thumbnail. With it he could rip open a rabbit for gutting, which process he would immediately accomplish with one movement of his hand. After this he simply wiped his hand on his trouser leg and then, more often than not, would happily proceed to tuck into his lunch.

I was included in this motley crew as I was a very good shot. Mr. Andrews would supply 100 cartridges with which I would expect to bag some 97 rabbits in a day. These would be hung from trees for later collection, evidence of the abundant rabbit population of the time. The brothers, meanwhile, would net their share of rabbits and the rat catcher completed the necessary skills with his individual gutting style. In those years the high numbers of rabbits meant a welcome addition to the wartime larder. My shooting had another side occupation, which I thought nothing of at that age, though one, that I find disconcerting in retrospect. Many of the local people would ask me to destroy ailing pets, in order to avoid vet’s expenses. I frequently dealt with cats and dogs and even a goat on one occasion.

The Manor House at War
In the middle of the war, about 1942, a stray load of incendiary bombs was dropped over Baddesley and three of them landed on the Manor House. Fortunately, they glanced against the roof tiles at an angle and shot off to lodge on the stone parapet. There was time to rush up and shovel them off. Our presence at the Manor House was justified.

At other times landmines fell nearby and broke windows. I was detailed to salvage their parachutes for the ladies to use in the making of underwear. In times of air raids the cellar of the Manor House made a very comfortable shelter, since it housed the central heating boiler.

I was on leave a couple of months before D-Day and saw some incredible sights around the village. Every bush and tree had something under or beside it. The entire wood between the Manor House and Castle Lane was one enormous ammunition dump. One day an American army convoy moved from Chandlers Ford to Baddesley, negotiating the sharp bend outside the Manor House by the front paddock. Everything got round until the tank transporters - each bearing two tanks apiece - attempted the man oeuvre and got stuck. A motorcyclist roared up and hurried on ahead to report. Almost immediately a bulldozer appeared and within quarter of an hour the corner had been sliced off, small trees and railings ripped out and dumped unceremoniously in the field on the opposite side of the road. Those who think that the corner is too abrupt today should ponder on the fact that it was once a good deal more so. The gap in the railings caused by this cavalier treatment can still be seen.

Despite all the restrictions and deprivations of the war, however, the Manor House gardens were kept in excellent order. The Company employed one of the large Mack family. He was a professional gardener, a consumptive who was not called up for military service. He kept the lawns immaculate and also grew vast amounts of food. In particular he grew vegetables in two great wooden greenhouses. My mother would distribute much of this produce among friends and family in Southampton. The walled garden in which the greenhouses were located was particularly memorable and I have been able to draw a plan of that wartime garden with reasonable ease.

A Return Visit
On a recent visit to family in Ampfield, my route took me past the entrance to the Manor House and, on an impulse born of curiosity, I turned into the drive and slowly made my way towards the old courtyard, where I stopped at the entrance. Seeing a lady coming out of the side entrance of the house, I got out of the car and made myself known to her. She said she would tell the lady of the house, who would perhaps see me. When she left I looked about me at the half cobbled yard, the coach-houses, the stables that could hold 12/15 horses, the brickwork and the slate roof. It all seemed so familiar and unchanged.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Joyce. She was very interested that I had lived in her home so many years before and invited me to look around, an invitation which I accepted with alacrity.

We passed under the archway in the corner of the courtyard where the house was connected to the courtyard building and underneath, incidentally, the room in which I used to sleep and through the passageway where I used to leave my bicycle after my many rides from Bournemouth. My story of the ammunition store solved a mystery, since the discovery of an odd surviving cartridge has puzzled people latterly.

We came out into what we termed in my day the backyard, a triangular shaped area grassed in the middle with paths all round it, flanked on one side by the rear of the house and on another by garden sheds. Where the sheds almost joined the rear of the courtyard buildings on the right hand side had been a slatted door, which led into a three-acre field in which cattle then grazed. The sheds were still there but the door was not.

One of the sheds in my time had housed a water pump, which supplied water to the house from the well beneath. I can remember the difficulties experienced in obtaining an adequate supply of petrol for the pump engine out of the meagre number of petrol coupons allowed for the job. To the left of the backyard, where the rear of the house was visible, used to be a long covered walk, which had contained a long line of office safes. This has now been filled in.

We carried on up the side of the backyard towards the archway of the corner entrance to the walled garden. One glance inside was to give me the biggest shock of the afternoon. Where had everything gone? The espaliers and cordons of fruit trees around the walls were no more. Gone, too, were the impressive beds of artichokes and asparagus, the rhubarb and horseradish and the innumerable immaculate rows of vegetables of all description. The two very large brick and wooden greenhouses, the pristine paths and the wide graduated flower beds on either side of the main central path down through the garden had also disappeared. To my amazement the whole area had now been grassed down. One small greenhouse was standing where one of the larger ones had stood. My hostess was very interested in my observations of what had been.

Walking towards the centre archway leading out of the walled garden, we turned to look at the path leading to the church gate. Again the flower border was no more but to my delight the lovely old oak tree opposite the room, which had been my parents’ bedroom, still stood in all its glory on the lawns. I could well remember the times I had sat at its foot endeavouring to absorb some knowledge of school subjects before exams, not with any great results I might add. There was quite a large area of lawn beside and in front of the house, an area that I had helped to mow on numerous occasions and with the same battle to find enough coupons to buy the petrol.

I stood for some time in silence and I am grateful to my hostess that she respected this silence and did nothing to break it. Many memories came flooding back at that moment, memories of the times I had spent in those surroundings, with the good times and the bad.

To my amazement I was then offered the opportunity of going indoors. I could not believe my luck. Retracing our steps, we entered the house through the door that used to lead into the kitchens, now sealed off and turned into a sort of utility room. Instead, the one-time servants’ hall has become a very large modern kitchen. Only one side now survives of the double stairway from the servants’ hall to the butler’s pantry and this in turn is now devoid of all the innumerable cabinets and green baize lined drawers that I remember.

The dining room, however, was where memory and reality came together. It was almost exactly as I remember it; tables, chairs and other furniture, though different, stood in the same places. The hall again was the same, as was the open sided lounge, which had been my mother and father’s room. Again the furniture was different but in similar places, even to the telephone. The only strikingly new feature was a different fireplace. Thence on to another change, though an expected one. Going through the double doors to the “ballroom” I was confronted by a beautiful drawing room where once the typists had held sway in a very different wartime situation.

We went no further. The study, the gunroom, my own bedroom and others remained as they were in my mind’s eye. I felt that I had intruded quite enough. Slowly we made our way out through the house and came out the side entrance into the courtyard. I thanked Mrs. Joyce for her hospitality and forbearance and, still slowed by memories, made my way back towards the car. I paused opposite the opening which led to the front of the house with the pleasing sweep of the drive round by the front entrance and remembered how many times I had stood in that exact spot with a gun under one arm and a couple of rabbits on the other. After a final glance around the courtyard I finally went back to my car and had a great deal of explaining to do to my patiently waiting wife.

So on to Ampfield, to stay with my cousin and his wife, who just happens to be a member of LTVAS. My memories immediately became notes, the notes eventually, with much urging, became this article. I have always meant to write an account of this important phase of my life and am most grateful to Mrs. Joyce for having so kindly opened the floodgates of memory.

North Baddesley, the Manor House and the local farming community made an enormous impression on my formative teenage years. As a townie I became totally absorbed in the farming life of North Baddesley to the extent that it shaped my whole life. Next year I am due to retire from a career in farm management.

J. Hibberd