River Wissey Lovell Fuller


February 2006

The last of the memorabilia found by Ron Watts after the death of Fred Highfield

When Fred Highfield died recently a number of writings by his fellow prisoners of war in the 1940s were found amongst his memorabilia, and some of these have been reproduced in the last two issues of The Pump. The last of these extracts are below:

The Clydeside Blitz

'Twas one o'clock in Glasgow on a very cold March morn,

The weary working people were in bed, tired out and worn

As some of them slept soundly, not knowing of their fate,

Three hundred German bombers on the Clyde did concentrate.

The women and the children, the young the sick and old

Were turned out into the streets, in the pouring rain and cold.

They made their way to shelters in the searchlights gleaming light

For seven dreary hours they sat, defenceless in the fight.

The first wave passed right overhead, there bombs came screaming down

To do their deadly damage on that poor defenceless town.

As I ran along I heard a cry, just like a bleating lamb,

It made me stare, it touched my heart, a baby in a pram.

I lifted up the little one, and in a shelter rest,

The mother of the little child to find I did my best.

I showed her to the women there and all their voices stilled,

One woman said "I'll take her home, her mother has been killed."

As the light of dawn was breaking, and the people lost their fear

And the drone of planes had died away, as they sounded the 'all clear'.

Then back out from the shelters the people they did stray,

Mid smoke and dust and ruins they had to make their way.

It shall never be forgotten, that bloody awful night,

When women with their children were screaming out with fright,

But Glasgow will remember, and look upon with pride,

Her sons who are out for vengeance for that night upon the Clyde.

Folks at Home

How often do you think, you folks at home,

Of lonely graves without a stone.

Where sleep our comrades, brave and true,

Out in the desert past Merza Matruh?

The raging sandstorms wake them not

For it's cold below when above it's hot.

The trials of the desert are over for them,

These heroes of ours, these British men.

On rolls of honour, their names will shine

And shall not dim with passing time.

As time goes by you will honour them

These heroes of ours, these British men.

So forget them not, you folks at home

As they lay out there in the sun alone.

They fought for their country, freedom and you

Out there in the desert past Merza Matruh.


We admire our heroes one and all

Whether they live or whether they fall.

Of their great deeds we all hear

Known best as men without any fear.

There is a man who cannot speak,

Riddled with bullets from toe to cheek,

Who died in action and knew he'd go,

Just another hero you'll never know

Lying in a grave without a name

He fought and died, willing and game.

So when you pass a warriors grave

Raise your hat to an unknown brave.

We'll be Home Soon

We're tired of roaming

We want to be homing

Back to where we belong

With an old easy chair

And a radio there,

Let us tell you about it in song.


We'll be home soon

So wear a smile

We'll be home soon

Laugh all the while

We'll only think of this place now and then

When we hear the sound of our old Big Ben

We'll be home soon, don't wear a frown,

With Billy and Joe from our home town.

So there's really no need to ponder in gloom.

We'll be home again soon.

All the above were written by unknown PoWs whilst in a PoW camp at Carpl, Italy in 1942

Ron Watts

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