Bohemia Village Voice

Death in the Old Town

It was a sunny summer Sunday morning in Hastings in 1943 and Jack, a Sapper in the Royal Engineers, was home on leave on a 48-hour pass, before being posted abroad. He was looking forward to a relaxing break and having a drink in his local pub before returning to the madness of war.
“I’ll just pop down to the Swan before dinner,” he said to his wife Emma.
“Good idea,” she said, “and I’ll have a nice Yorkshire Pudding waiting when you get back, with meat, roast potatoes and gravy.”
“Cor, can’t wait. I’ll hurry back for that lot love – but you’re sure you’ll be OK?”
Emma was nearly nine months pregnant. Their first baby was imminent and she was feeling fat and frumpy.
“Course I will. I’m so lucky you’re here and can get you if anything happens.”
He kissed Emma and left. They’d only been married for twelve months, but were young and in love. This was hardly the ideal time to have a baby, Emma reflected, with a world war raging, but she hoped it would be a boy who’d grow up to look like Jack. She must get the cooking time right for that pudding. She wanted it to rise and be a crisp golden brown.
She’d cry when Jack left, for he could easily get killed, but at least she’d got him now for two whole days. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her stomach and sank into a chair. A little while later came another pain – and then another. Now they were coming regularly.
‘Don’t panic’, she said to herself, ‘but this must be it – THE BABY’S COMING!’ She’d hurry to the Swan to get Jack – and they’d telephone for an ambulance. It was perfect timing, because HE was here – so nothing could go wrong – but there’d be no Sunday dinner today.
Trying to keep calm, she switched off the oven and hurried out into the street, running towards the pub. Then she stopped, horror-stricken, as she saw a low-flying enemy bomber make a direct hit on the Swan and HER JACK WAS IN THERE!
There was an almighty blast and the pub and nearby houses disintegrated into a mass of flames. Nobody could have survived that raging inferno. She rushed, screaming, towards the devastating scene – and at the pains within her . . .
Nearly seventy years later two men stood in front of a memorial garden in Hastings Old Town, reading a plaque attached to a small wire fence at the front. It said:-
On this site stood the Swan Inn and 1,2 & 3 Swan Terrace destroyed by enemy action at about mid-day on Sunday 23rd May 1943, with considerable loss of life
The young man turned to the older one. “So this is where it actually happened dad – this is what we’ve come from Australia to see.”
“Yes son, they rushed my mother to hospital and I was born about 11.00 p.m. that same day. She named me Jack after my father, and I’m sure he’d have been a great dad to me. She survived the war, but we eventually emigrated to Australia as ‘£10.00 Poms’. She never saw this beautiful place with all the flowers and trees because she never came back to England and never re-married.”
“How rotten to be born on the same day your dad died,” said his son “but I’m really glad you brought me here.” As they turned to go, the young man looked back and said;
“Goodnight grandad – and goodbye.”