East
Fife Mail, July 15, 1992
The war may well have ended in 1945 but there was one person who kept our
shores free from foreign invaders long after that.
The
unknown warrior kept a lonely vigil in a small dugout on Leven beach,
armed to the teeth and scouring the horizon for the first glimpse of
an armada of landing craft coming over the horizon into Largo Bay.
The
fact they never came just shows how intimidating this lone military
presence was.
This
hero was me.
Looking
back, I can't help wondering why no kind soul whisked me away for
psychiatric counselling because the behaviour could not, by any
stretch of the imagination, be considered normal.
Every
morning over the summer I would head, sometimes with another one or
two recruits, along to the Mile Dyke.
It
must have been a terrifying sight for the caravanners at the end of
the Prom. A young, muscular lad; a GI's helmet slung back on his
head, a hefty Bren gun in his hands, grenades strapped across his
chest, a foxhole pick, camouflage uniform and back pack.
Maybe
it was hard for them to recognise this warrior. To them they saw a
scrawny kid whose head disappeared into an old ARP helmet, carrying a
funny-shaped log in his hands, in a Marks and Spencer tee-shirt and
shorts with his pockets stuffed full of rocks and duffel bag strung
across his back with a coal shovel.
No
imagination some people!
And
so, once crossing minefields and enemy terrain, I would re-locate my
camp, dig another foot into the foxhole, prop up my stick (Bren gun)
put the grenades (pebbles) within easy reach then squint for eight
hours over the bay.
This
behaviour, which at best can be described as mental, lasted an entire
summer, later being relegated to weekend duty then being dropped in
favour of 40-a-side football matches.
To
be fair, sometimes we were called into action.
We
were the platoon that dammed that river, cutting off a vital supply
line to the enemy, and flooding the Mile Dyke green on the golf
course.
Once
we even found the enemy. We trespassed on to Silverburn to set up
camp one afternoon and were unearthed by an adult who had to be
madder than we were because he let loose with his shotgun.
Once
a farmer outside Colinsburgh took exception to us crossing his fields
as we stormed Shell Bay and he had no hesitation in blasting away at
us with salt pellets.
I
suppose there are a mittful of folk out there who sit around and
curse the changing times and regret the passing of the days when you
could go out and shoot at a kid in an ARP helmet.
But
there were other oddballs in Leven back then and I'm amazed any of us
were ever allowed out by ourselves.
There
was one lad who used to hurl himself off the bing on his bike, hands
and feet stretched out; a boy who pretended he was a sniper up the
Glen and would suddenly pop up in plastic helmet covered in leaves
when a couple were about to kiss in the shadow of the trees, fire off
a few `ratatats' and hurl himself back into the undergrowth.
Then
there was my first fantasy figure - a girl in Manse Place. Leven,
who sat up a tree all day and fired sharpened sticks from a home made
bow at you if you trespassed on her territory
Ah
the world of innocent fantasies! Just think, these weird little
warriors grew up and, in secret, we are probably weird little
adults... but all the better for a little imagination.
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