Recollections of an Old (but young at heart) Oswestrian, circa 1952 - EPISODE 14, STALAG OSWESTRY, JUST AFTER THE WAR

Where is everybody? Digging tunnel number six probably. This stark view of a scenario taken in 1957 conveys very aptly the bleak, unwelcoming nature of a deserted senior dormitory. Devoid of any colour, this is a scene seldom seen, and minus the busy, bustling occupants, takes on the appearance of a cold institution; for indeed, in some ways that was the reality!

This was to be my final resting place, if you pardon the expression, during my years at Oswestry, and there is an almost ghostly look about it, abandoned like the Marie Celeste, its occupants gone. Apart from the primitive sight of what I can only describe as the prison camp style beds, which were as uncomfortable as they look, one of the first things I notice is the absence of an open wicker basket under each bed in which boys kept some of their possessions. The two other places we had for storage were our tuck boxes, and a small locker in the boot room which was next to the library, and below the changing rooms.

Every boarder passing through these portals will recall which of these beds he occupied, and I was tucked up in the top left-hand corner with an amazing vantage point of two windows. The one immediately above my bed overlooked the lower common room annex, fives court, tuck shop, and paddock.

View from the paddock, The lower common room is the small annex to the left of the bike shed.

From my window I would frequently observe the clandestine, after-midnight activities of a small coterie of boys exiting School House having unscrewed the bars on the common room window. I was never sure whether these were designed to keep us from escaping or to prevent access from outside. 

The small party would scuttle away, lights from their torches dancing along the pathway, illuminating the way forward in the direction of the Dingle and farm buildings. They returned an hour or so later from some nefarious mission, giggling as they re-entered via the same window. We never discovered, and did not ask, what the group got up to on these early morning sorties. I was to use the same method in later years to escape for a couple of hours in the middle of the night! Strangely, to my knowledge, this exit strategy remained undiscovered during my time at school, and I wonder how many of my peers remember this.

        

Saturday night was Stoker Lewis's best time for visiting his waterhole, The Welsh Harp, and from the windows overlooking the quadrangle I would occasionally watch him wending his way home unsteadily, near the midnight hour, across the playground after imbibing several pints. Pausing momentarily by his favourite tree (he was a man of habit), he would sometimes merrily break out and sing one of his favourite songs Wrap Me Up in My Tarpaulin Jacket. This was his party piece at the School House end of term concerts which took place in the dining room the night before we all said our goodbyes and headed off to Oswestry Station to catch the train home for the holidays.

School House dining room

Each boy was expected to contribute in some way to the last night concert, and we all prepared something, either jointly with others in the form of a sketch, or individually, reciting a poem, telling a story, or singing.

John Tilley always attended, bursting into song, with Stoker finally regaling us with his usual offering. Mr Williamson, to my recollection, never put in an appearance, preferring to keep a discreet distance from the revelries, although there was no alcohol in sight.

(Front Row) John 'Purdy' Tilley, 'Fattie' Felton, Richard Sale (Headmaster), Stoker Lewis

In my last year, I asked Dai Lewis why he always sang My Tarpaulin Jacket, and he answered by revealing he was a big fan of Winston Churchill. The great leader apparently used to entertain his men, when he was a Lieutenant Colonel in 1916 on The Western Front, by singing this song, and they loved him for it but complained he was a terrible singer.

I could not resist saying to him, "Well, you do have one thing in common then!" before finally adding a respectful, "Sir". Years earlier I would never have dared say such a thing as we were all in awe of this strict disciplinarian.

 

Much later, at a school reunion, I admitted having watched him from my viewpoint in 'the crow's nest' as he returned from the pub, and mentioned his occasional unscheduled pit stops. He just laughed in his deep guttural way, saying that it could have been worse. "Moreover," he said, continuing the nautical theme, "if I had spotted you, I would have made you walk the plank". The dark figure we were all frightened of had a sense of humor after all. He was just a pussy cat really.

The 'Crow's Nest' - top window to the far right.