WW2
Above are two photographs of the Home Guard in WW2.
"I have always understood that the large group photo of the Home Company was taken at the Lindrick end of Woodsetts. The other photo, I do not know where it was taken, but Tom and Harold Hayes are on both photos.
There were two Home Guard Companies in Dinnington during the war, one based in the cricket pavilion at the C.I. Jack Higham was commanding officer and the Hayes brothers were in that Company. The other one was based at Dinnington Hall in what is now part of the veterinary premises". Jon Harvey
"I have always understood that the large group photo of the Home Company was taken at the Lindrick end of Woodsetts. The other photo, I do not know where it was taken, but Tom and Harold Hayes are on both photos.
There were two Home Guard Companies in Dinnington during the war, one based in the cricket pavilion at the C.I. Jack Higham was commanding officer and the Hayes brothers were in that Company. The other one was based at Dinnington Hall in what is now part of the veterinary premises". Jon Harvey
Dinnington Men who lost their Lives in WW11
The 1945 Service Register for Dinnington
Memories of Dinnington Primary School During WW2
Brian Horkley
I think I must have started school when I was almost five years old, but possibly rather earlier in the summer of 1939. In September war was declared. There was very little traffic in those days, and there would be even less in the coming months as petrol rationing hit harder. There were very few private cars. I am sure that after only a few days my mother would have let me join the older children to walk down Laughton Road to school at the far end. It was less than a mile and was down one side of the road.
We had already been issued with our gas masks and had their cardboard containers slung round our necks as we walked down to school.
In the infant class, we were given a mat, which we spread on the floor. We had to lie on it, no moving, no talking. I think the teacher called it “rest time”. We also had “milk time”, when we were given a bottle of milk. It was one third of a pint. It had a cardboard top with a circle in the middle, which you had to press out to insert a straw. All was well until one day in the depths of winter, when milk came frozen in the bottles. They were put under the heating pipes that ran along the side of the classroom. Unfortunately, they were left until the milk was lukewarm, and I just could not drink it. In fact, I do not think I had milk at school after that.
I cannot remember how old I was when I climbed onto the heap of coke that had been delivered into the school playground, right next to the delivery chute to take it down to the boiler room. Anyway, I went too far and could not stop myself sliding down the coke into the underground darkness. I landed on a pile of coke, looking up at a square of sky where I had come down. It did not seem very long before the caretaker came in through a door and took me out. I expect he was mightily relieved that I was not hurt. I cannot recall getting into trouble about it, perhaps the Headmaster realised they were at fault for making it possible for a child to do that. Health and safety!
It is strange how bits and pieces come to mind, after more than seventy years. I do not know why I recall one particular lesson. Every week we had dictation and our teacher would choose a passage and read it slowly, phrase by phrase, and we had to keep up, writing it down, with, of course, the correct spellings and punctuation. The teacher marked it, so we would know how well we did.
This is the only one I recall, perhaps I just liked it more than any other. It is the second paragraph of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
I remember him as if were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow, a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the corner and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out into that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest –
Yo – ho – ho, and a bottle of rum!”
We had art and craft lessons which included weaving. There were several small wooden looms and we were taught how to set one up and then weave coloured woollen yarn to make a patterned scarf. We had to be careful to maintain the right tension as we moved along so as to keep a straight edge.
At much the same time my mother taught me to knit. Being a keen knitter herself she thought it would be a good idea to teach me how to knit things I could give as Christmas presents. They were just simple articles such as dishcloths as well as pot-holders, for handling hot pans and kettles.
The only other event I recall from Dinnington Primary School was the first caning I suffered. This must have been when I was perhaps nine years old. There was an army detachment at Throapham, within walking distance. Somehow my mother’s voluntary activities involved taking turns to deliver newspapers to the soldiers there. I got involved too and so each morning I, and sometimes a friend, would walk down Laughton Road, past the school to the unit at Throapham.
On one occasion the papers were late. I, and my friend Nicky Summerbell, hurried to deliver them but by the time we got to school we were late. I do not remember how late. The Headmaster, Mr. Miller, sent for us. We told him the story. He said that he had seen us from his window, going past the school before nine o’clock and would not accept our reasons for being late. We both got a beating on the backside. It was the first, but I am afraid to say was not the last caning I got over the years. It seems to me now that not quite everyone was one hundred percent in support of the war effort!
My education was not limited to school. I occasionally received books for Christmas but my main source of reading material was the Public Library, not far along Laughton Road. From a very early age my mother would take me to help choose books, but came the great day, my eighth birthday, when I was old enough to have my own “library ticket”. I remember being very proud to choose and take out books for the first time on my own.
Brian Horkley
I think I must have started school when I was almost five years old, but possibly rather earlier in the summer of 1939. In September war was declared. There was very little traffic in those days, and there would be even less in the coming months as petrol rationing hit harder. There were very few private cars. I am sure that after only a few days my mother would have let me join the older children to walk down Laughton Road to school at the far end. It was less than a mile and was down one side of the road.
We had already been issued with our gas masks and had their cardboard containers slung round our necks as we walked down to school.
In the infant class, we were given a mat, which we spread on the floor. We had to lie on it, no moving, no talking. I think the teacher called it “rest time”. We also had “milk time”, when we were given a bottle of milk. It was one third of a pint. It had a cardboard top with a circle in the middle, which you had to press out to insert a straw. All was well until one day in the depths of winter, when milk came frozen in the bottles. They were put under the heating pipes that ran along the side of the classroom. Unfortunately, they were left until the milk was lukewarm, and I just could not drink it. In fact, I do not think I had milk at school after that.
I cannot remember how old I was when I climbed onto the heap of coke that had been delivered into the school playground, right next to the delivery chute to take it down to the boiler room. Anyway, I went too far and could not stop myself sliding down the coke into the underground darkness. I landed on a pile of coke, looking up at a square of sky where I had come down. It did not seem very long before the caretaker came in through a door and took me out. I expect he was mightily relieved that I was not hurt. I cannot recall getting into trouble about it, perhaps the Headmaster realised they were at fault for making it possible for a child to do that. Health and safety!
It is strange how bits and pieces come to mind, after more than seventy years. I do not know why I recall one particular lesson. Every week we had dictation and our teacher would choose a passage and read it slowly, phrase by phrase, and we had to keep up, writing it down, with, of course, the correct spellings and punctuation. The teacher marked it, so we would know how well we did.
This is the only one I recall, perhaps I just liked it more than any other. It is the second paragraph of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.
I remember him as if were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow, a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the corner and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out into that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:
“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest –
Yo – ho – ho, and a bottle of rum!”
We had art and craft lessons which included weaving. There were several small wooden looms and we were taught how to set one up and then weave coloured woollen yarn to make a patterned scarf. We had to be careful to maintain the right tension as we moved along so as to keep a straight edge.
At much the same time my mother taught me to knit. Being a keen knitter herself she thought it would be a good idea to teach me how to knit things I could give as Christmas presents. They were just simple articles such as dishcloths as well as pot-holders, for handling hot pans and kettles.
The only other event I recall from Dinnington Primary School was the first caning I suffered. This must have been when I was perhaps nine years old. There was an army detachment at Throapham, within walking distance. Somehow my mother’s voluntary activities involved taking turns to deliver newspapers to the soldiers there. I got involved too and so each morning I, and sometimes a friend, would walk down Laughton Road, past the school to the unit at Throapham.
On one occasion the papers were late. I, and my friend Nicky Summerbell, hurried to deliver them but by the time we got to school we were late. I do not remember how late. The Headmaster, Mr. Miller, sent for us. We told him the story. He said that he had seen us from his window, going past the school before nine o’clock and would not accept our reasons for being late. We both got a beating on the backside. It was the first, but I am afraid to say was not the last caning I got over the years. It seems to me now that not quite everyone was one hundred percent in support of the war effort!
My education was not limited to school. I occasionally received books for Christmas but my main source of reading material was the Public Library, not far along Laughton Road. From a very early age my mother would take me to help choose books, but came the great day, my eighth birthday, when I was old enough to have my own “library ticket”. I remember being very proud to choose and take out books for the first time on my own.