Chapter (40) A LEAP OF FAITH

School boy pranks in the early 60's

The old railway bridge.

It seemed so much bigger when we were kids.

 

It was the summer of 1963. Gerry and the Pacemakers had reached number one on the Top of the Pops record charts and I was 11 years old being the eldest of three brothers and a younger sister. We lived with our parents in a small country village at the tail end of Lincolnshire near the border with Rutland, called South Witham.  At the heart of the village and built on raised land is the Church. The original church is mentioned in the Doomsday book of 1086, although it has changed much since that time. The village children would attend at least one service every Sunday and I was no exception.  As a member of the Church choir I often attended both the morning and the evening services.

Back in my childhood the church was surrounded on all sides by old stone thatched cottages associated with the three farms in the village. The three Hinds brothers each had a farm and owned most of the land surrounding the village.

Those lovely old cottages with their flower filled gardens have all but disappeared today to be replaced by characterless modern red brick boxes.

My parents rented a large three-bedroom post war council house. We had a small lawn at the front and a nice hedge and at the back a larger lawn where we played cricket and football, the property also had a large vegetable garden. Large gardens were common and almost everyone I knew grew vegetables and kept a few animals. Some private houses had very large gardens indeed, and a few had orchards too, very popular with the kids in the village, especially at scrumping time.

A small stream ran from the railway embankment to the south of the village, it then crossed a field. Passing a row of stone houses it flowed over the road at the bottom of Clarke’s Hill. The water was clear and sweet in those days and we often drank it to quench our thirst during the long hot days of summer. The stream continued it’s course flowing at the bottom of a deep ditch running parallel to the bottom road until it disappeared underground to re emerge a quarter of a mile further north where it joined with the river Witham. The Witham sourced in a field nearby to start it’s arcing course around Lincolnshire before entering the sea at Boston. The village derived it’s name from river.

As I’ve said my family and I lived in a new Council house in a small 'T' shaped street. Our back lawn actually backed up to the local scrap yard. We didn't see much of it as it had a high wall. It was great for kicking a football against and our father had painted a set of cricket stumps on it too. My father used the large vegetable plot to grow every type of vegetable that we knew about, so that we had fresh vegetables in the garden throughout the entire year. Tight, crisp Brussels Sprouts, picked in December with the frost on them, delicious.

By the side of the house was ‘The coal shed'. This was a large concrete shed for storing coal and it had a large space for garden tools, bicycles and even a small workshop, which my father made full use of.

Our side of the village was about a mile from the end of the main runway of an R.A.F. base where the famous Vulcan Bombers were stationed during the cold war. It was an exciting time for us kids, not so much for the adults. The deep rumbling roar of the giant jet engines as they were warming up vibrated everything and everyone. Then the engine noise would build as they prepared for takeoff. Just after takeoff as it cleared the end of the runway the Vulcan Bomber ignited the afterburners and turned skywards in an almost vertical climb. The thunderous rumble was deafening. My mum swore that it was this rumbling noise that turned the milk sour. On occasions they would fly very low over the houses and several times I can remember the jet wash from their powerful jet engines blowing the tall 'H' shaped T.V. aerials off the chimneystacks. This did not impress my father.

I remember those days with fondness and nostalgia as I write this account. For me, and many of my friends, it was a time of innocence and simplicity. It was an age of discovery and common sense. It was a time so unlike today with all of the mother hen politics we have to suffer.

At that time during the summer months the school holidays lasted eight weeks. Every child had longed for the school term to end and the fun to begin. The weather too was usually reliable and all the children in the village played outside from morning 'till night. Even the few days that it rained didn't dampen our spirits. Most of the time we played football in the streets, cricket on the playing field; we swam in the clear waters of the river Witham and amused ourselves in a myriad of ways.

Saturdays were welcomed by all the children as it usually meant there would be a football match on the playing field. Sundays it was cricket with sandwiches and cold drinks.

Children had respect for adults and every adult adopted the role of being a parent for all kids. The village "Bobby" took care of wrong doings in his own style and the streets were safe. A quick clip around the ear and we soon learned what we could and couldn't do and when not to get caught doing what we were not supposed to do.

 Our "Bobby" was P.C. Warner, and his wife, Mrs Warner, was the district nurse. Between them they took care of us from birth to the grave.

That particular summer had been long, hot and very dry. The corn was harvested early and the short stubble fields were strewn with the small golden oblong shaped straw bales. We would spend many hours using the straw bales to build little houses, castles and forts. The local farmers didn't seem to mind too much. Pretty Harvest mice with their large delicate ears scampered around in the stubble collecting fallen grains to store for winter. Hawks and Kestrels hovered over the fields and often fell onto the poor unsuspecting mice and voles. The dozens of bird species that we could identify, had nested, raised their brood and the young had fledged and flown the nest. Every bush and tree had colourful little birds flitting from branch to branch. Millions of colourful wild flowers painted the countryside. A half dozen Butterfly species fluttered endlessly amongst the tall white flowered nettles and wild flowers. The hedgerows were festooned in Blackberries and buzzed with insects and birds of every type. House sparrows rested along the rooftops and television aerials, in their thousands. Swallows and swifts swooped and swirled in a relentless blue sky, and the sun burned down. In the evenings a million Starlings formed swirling black clouds that danced intricate patterns across the pink evening sky.

For 5 long weeks my friend Peter and I had played from morning ‘till night. Sometimes we played with lots of other kids and sometimes just the two of us.  We had captured fort Laramie, defended the Alamo, rustled cattle, defeated Geronimo, stormed the beaches of Normandy, explored jungles, spent hours in the river on make shift rafts and ridden our imaginary horses till our feet hurt too much to walk. Our bikes had taken us many miles in search of adventure. We had walked miles and miles in search of birds' nests hoping to find a second clutch and a new species to add to our collections of birds eggs. Collecting bird's eggs was considered quite a normal thing to do, and no one knew about, or even thought about  conservation.

The days were long and they seemed endless. It was light by 5 in the morning and stayed light until late in the evening. After six weeks of enjoying ourselves we were getting tired of doing much the same thing every day and needed new adventures to keep us occupied.

 That particular day had started as normal around 6am. My father had left for work by six thirty. My mum was up and already banging around the house. My little sister was still in bed crying and I was sat at the kitchen table having a slice of toast and a cup of tea with my brother Gary.  It didn’t take long for our mother to tell us to go out and play. She made it clear to us she had a lot of washing to get through and didn't want us kids under her feet. My brother looked at me with an expression that said Are you mad? when I had answered her without thinking.

"But I'm bored." I said. It was then that the kitchen exploded in my ears.

"BORED? ....BORED?  How can you be bored? You're 11." It is amazing how quickly realisation hits you when your mum is standing by the kitchen sink red faced and waving a wet plate at you. My brother had already left. Coward, I thought. You can't argue with an angry mum if you don't have an answer. I didn't have an answer but I thought I’d give it a go.

"It's too hot to play out." I answered hopelessly and in a vain attempt to sound plausible. I knew from the moment I'd opened my mouth to answer her that I was on a downhill slope to a thick ear. No one ever won an argument with my mum, not even my dad. The one-sided conversation lasted several very loud seconds more and then I found myself on the wrong side of our back door. Oh well, I'll go and see if Peter is coming out I thought to myself as I made my way up the street. Maybe his mum will let us stay in and play a game or something. I hadn't even reached Peters' garden gate when he came sauntering around the side of his house.

"Hello mate." The sound of his voice told me he wasn't happy either.

"Mam's doin the washin." He said as he opened the gate to come out.

"Mine too mate. You got a bottle so's we can get some water?" My best mate disappeared for a minute and came back with an empty flip top pop bottle.

"Least we can get some cold water mate." I said as I took the bottle from him.

Peter was 11. He was the same height as me but he weighed several stones more. Kids at school often taunted him with names like 'fatso' and 'tubby chops' but Peter had heard it all for so long it no longer bothered him. He was a round faced cheerful lad but he didn't make friends easily. However Peter was great at making stuff. He could build anything using a few bits of rubbish found at the local tip, some wood and baler twine. During this holiday he'd built a rabbit trap to catch them alive. He'd built several wooden guns for us to play with. He never went anywhere without his trusty penknife.

I had known Pete all my life and he was my best friend. When he'd gone to fetch the pop bottle he'd also returned with something hidden behind his back. He brought it out to show me.

"What yu got there Pete?"  He was holding something I hadn't seen before. Peter was excited as he held out the khaki green package for me to take. It had straps attached and a black zip ran all the way around the edge.

This new object of interest was in fact part of a pilots parachute survival pack.

"Me dad got it yes'day."

"Wow this great Pete."  I said as we knelt on the path and I unzipped the elongated skull shape and laid it on the path between us. The inside of both halves was filled with a firm grey foam material. Various shaped compartments had been cut out of the grey sponge.

 The two obvious shapes were for a pistol and a knife. We guessed other shapes might have contained a map, compass, book, food, water and other such items as might be needed to survive in enemy territory.

"Put it on Pete."  I re-zipped it and helped my friend to fasten it to his back. Once we realised it was upside down it all made more sense and fitted much better. Two straps went over the shoulders, two passed under the legs and two went around the sides.  The leg straps fastened together before clipping all five into the central lock.

Where the straps were sewn to the pack each strap had a "D" shaped metal ring attached. 

"Where on earth did you get it?" Peter took up a pose like a parachutist ready to jump, and then added.

"Dad found it yesterday in a field up by Morkery wood."

I should explain that Peters' dad was a 'plasher'. He was employed by all the local farmers and landowners to keep all the hedges in the area solid and well maintained. Fields were smaller than they are today with hedges as boundaries. There were many livestock fields and it needed a good solid hedge to keep cattle and sheep from escaping into neighbouring fields or out into the countryside. Peter's dad often rode to an area on his bicycle using roads and tracks but most of the time he was on foot. He carried all the tools of his trade on his back. He had an extremely sharp billhook with a long handle,  a tool for chopping thin branches and saplings and a 6ft long handled reed-cutting knife for the ditches. A sharpening stone and various other bits and pieces he carried in an old army pack on his back.

Morkery Wood lay three miles to the east of the village. It was a thick tangled wild woodland covering many acres. It was a place of mystery and a place where we often played. Parts of it were still impenetrable even by the most enthusiastic explorers amongst us.

Buried deep inside Morkery wood and hidden from view, were several very long concrete runways. They had not been used for almost 20 years. They were now cracked and very overgrown. Shrubs, weeds and brambles grew out of the cracks between the concrete sections. Tall Oaks, Beech and Elms encroached from the sides. This was just one of many such makeshift secret airfields dotted all around this region.

These very same airfields had been used during the war for storage and as take off points for bomber and glider squadrons. Dakotas and gliders left here for Holland and Operation Market Garden and for the invasion of Normandy. The children of the surrounding villages that played here knew the history of this place, and we would run down the runways, arms out stretched like an airplane, and shouting a noise like an engine. More often than not we were a Spitfire taking off and not one of the cargo Dakotas.

A small lane ran along the northern edge of the wood leading to Castle Bytham, almost in line with the railway tracks. Dotted In the landscape all around the wood were huge craters. Over the years some of these had become ponds and supported a wide variety of pond life.

When we could we'd search out duck or moorhen eggs. We would make a fire and then boil the eggs in an old tin using the pond water. Lunch was served. Many other bomb craters had become overgrown holes in the ground. It was ideal territory for playing war games. Where enemy bombs had landed nearer to the airstrips the craters had been partially filled in, and in a few, piles of used shell casings from the anti aircraft emplacements, had been dumped in them. Old clothing and a mess of other interesting bits and pieces were regularly found, and, on occasions, we even found live ammunition.

Peters' dad often returned with interesting bits and pieces that he picked up along the field edges, but this parachute pack was the best so far.

Between the village and the Vulcan bomber base was the old railway line. It ran just a few hundred feet from the houses on a high embankment. When I had been younger the line had still been operating and you could take day trips to the seaside or send a parcel or even chickens to any part of the country. Several trains a day would trundle past blowing smoke and steam. Now it was mostly closed and only very occasionally would a train of freight wagons pass through, loaded with ironstone from the local quarry, on route to the east coast. The station buildings and work sheds were neglected and falling down and it was supposed to be out of bounds. This did not stop us children however. It was the most exciting place to play with your mates. Once we had found a huge wicker basket in one of the goods sheds, and using a thick rope that had been lying around, we hauled the basket into the air over a beam in one of the wagon repair sheds. This made a great swing and got in four or five at a time. We had no concept of the danger and so we felt no fear. Old broken open wagons lay rotting and rusting in the sidings.

Once we managed to rebuild a hand cranked travel bogey. It was big enough to take four people working the crank and six or seven others sitting along the sides. Once we got as far as Castle Bytham before rail officials found us and made us give it up. We knew trains still used the track but it never occurred to us that what we were doing was extremely dangerous.

A few hundred yards from the station the train tracks crossed a small country lane which dipped under a high blue brick bridge. The bridge was built with sloping retaining walls about two feet wide and topped with smooth black slabs. We often used them as a slide.

The road sign said 13ft 6". That was the height from the road to the apex of the arch, the bridge continued up another 10 ft or so to the top parapet. We reckoned the height from top of the bridge to the road was around 25 ft give or take.

Peter was still strapped in his parachute pack. Sitting on Peters' front lawn we conjured up a great idea on how we could use this new found gadget. To put our plan into action we would need a long strong rope. Once all we had to do was to go up to the railway station and tough rope was laying everywhere. Unfortunately those days had gone and it was difficult to get a hold of a long length of strong rope now. There was only one place we knew now where we could find a rope strong enough and long enough for what we had in mind.

On the top road, by the old stationmaster's house, was a dirt pull-in where Lorries regularly parked overnight. These were not the modern container Lorries we see today. They were normally flat bed Fodens and Bedfords used by local hauliers. Quite often the drivers left long lengths of rope and tarpaulins on the flat bed, which they used for tying down their loads. It was amazing how many uses we could find for a good piece of rope.

Pete took off the harness and went back to put it in his dads shed. For most of the rest of the day we wandered around the fields and lanes. We talked as we walked and after a few miles and several stops to drink from springs we had made what we thought was a good plan. Later that afternoon we found ourselves lying lazily on the grass embankment near the old station house, trying to spot the noisy Skylarks high in the sky. We had our pockets filled with carrots, that we had collected from a field nearby, and from time to time we would take one out, wipe it on the grass and eat it. It was a hot and lazy afternoon. By teatime most of the streets were clearing of people and cars, not that we saw many cars in those days and we knew most of the number plates by heart. Once we were happy that most people had gone home for the evening we could make our way up to where the Lorries had parked. Obviously we didn't want reporting to P.C. Warner for taking a rope we weren't supposed to take. Walking casually up the road we could see there were two Lorries already parked up.

A reasonably clean coiled rope grabbed our attention and it was quickly and quietly removed from its' resting place. Peter slung the coil over his shoulder like a professional climber. Heads lowered commando style we ran quietly away and stashed our rope out of site under the cricket pavilion steps. Tomorrow was the big day. 

The country lanes around the village were not well maintained and on hot days the tar would get soft and small bubbles would form on the surface. Sometimes we would go around popping these bubbles and watch as the thin membranes folded under and melted back into the surface. It was a simple pleasure just to press a finger against the hot tar and see the details of your fingerprint. In those days there would be less than a dozen cars in the entire village. When a car did drive by it would get small bits of tar stuck to the wheels as it passed over the exposed areas. There was a particularly large area of exposed tar under the railway bridge.

The next morning my mum was stood by the sink washing a few pots while I sat at the tiny kitchen table eating a slice of toast with a cup of tea.  A knock on the door signalled that Peter was up and eager to get going.

"COME ON IN PETE." I cried out.

"Don't shout. Open the door." Mum's voice had a hint of annoyance in it. I jumped up just as the door opened and Peter stepped inside.

"Come on mate. Just eatin me toast. "

"Morning Mrs Tilley." Peter was always polite.

"Morning Peter. How's your mams leg today son?" My mum was still stood by the sink staring out of the kitchen window over our back garden. Could she really be concerned about Pete's mum's leg?

"Yeah. Ok I think. She was putting washing out just now."

"That's good son. I'll mehbi nip up an see her later." Peter was sat in the chair next to me.

"You want a drink mate?" Peter turned to me and shook his head. I gulped down the last of my breakfast and we said bye to my mum and set off back up to Petes' house. We didn't waste any time in getting back up the street and Pete ran around the side of his house and retrieved the harness from his dads shed.  It was already getting warmer as we made our way out of the village to the village playing field we called the Rec. The Rec was huge. It had a full sized cricket field at the village end and a full sized football pitch at the other.  At this end near the old wooden Cricket pavilion there was also a netted tennis court. Dandelions pushed through the faded unused tarmac surface of the court. You could often find half a dozen football games going on at the same time when the village kids all got together. We were not allowed to play on the field on Sundays in the summer as it was reserved for cricket matches. The long uncut grass behind the pavilion was used as a car park on match days. Not that many people had cars back then but teams from other villages often came in an old charabanc.

It was now midsummer and the tall grasses were topped with seed heads and were turning yellow. Bright red Poppies popped their petals above the swaying seed heads. Bees buzzed between the purple flowered thistles and a few bright yellow Brimstone butterflies searched out the wild meadow flowers. Skylarks sang constantly, so high up in the clear skies it was near impossible to spot them. We sometimes came here to catch grasshoppers before going fishing.

There was nobody about when we arrived on the Rec except a huge flock of seagulls that was resting at the far end of the field. I got down and retrieved the rope from under the pavilion steps just as a Vulcan Bomber roared into life on the airfield a half mile away.

The powerful engine noise rumbled across the fields and hit us. They often did this when testing the engines.

The seagulls lifted into the air like a squawking white cloud, circled round before calming down and coming back and landing where they'd taken off.

The rope was obviously new as there were no oily marks on it from the lorry driver's hands. We unrolled it to see just how long it was. It was as thick as a thumb and lay like a long multi coloured snake in the morning sunlight. With the rope re coiled and over my head and shoulder, we made our way back the half mile or so to the railway bridge. We could hear the sounds of other children playing, but they seemed to be quite far off. The dull drone of a tractor somewhere across the fields was the only unnatural sound to disturb a perfect summers day.

Arriving at the bottom of the bridge by the road we climbed over the wooden style onto the narrow grass track which ran for a mile or so following the rail lines, squeezed between the bottom of the railway embankment and a rickety black steel fence. This track wasn't used much and the whole place was tight with thorn bushes, brambles and small trees. Pushing past a prickly hawthorn we found a patch of ground big enough to sit down, and where we couldn't be seen.

"You figured out how we gonna do this Pete?" I asked as I lifted the rope coil over my head and laid it down beside us.

"Reckon we'll do it, bit like we did that basket up the sheds." I remembered that old laundry basket, we had tons of fun, before the rope broke and we plummeted onto the old platform. I remember we both limped home that day. However I was short of another idea so said that sounded ok to me. Taking one end of the rope from me Pete passed it through the top two 'D' rings on the pack and made a knot. Then he passed the other end of the rope through the bottom 'D' rings and pulled it through, this took a few minutes as he had to pull a lot of rope through. It took us more than an hour and several attempts but we finally managed to figure out how to tie the rope to the rings it so that the pack, and one of us, would hang at about forty-five degrees when suspended. We knew a lot about knots. Looking smug with ourselves Pete and I sat admiring our handy work when a familiar voice startled us

"Whacha doin?" It was Eric and we hadn't noticed him coming down the embankment. He was like a Ferret and how he found us was a mystery.

A year younger than us, Eric Perkinson had two older brothers and two younger brothers. He didn't like playing with any of his brothers and often wandered around on his own trying to join other groups of kids. While Eric was not the brightest kid in the village, he was a good mate to have and he was game for anything and this often got him into trouble with P.C. Warner.

He was thin and wiry and although it was another hot day he was wearing his old grubby pullover with several holes in it.  A dirty 'T' shirt was half tucked into a pair of ragged grey flannel shorts that stopped at his knees. At the bottom of his skinny legs he wore a pair of scuffed oversize brown shoes and no socks.  Today people might think he was a deprived child, but back then it was just the way we were. Eric wasn't any different to most of us kids. He wasn't malnourished or neglected; he simply came from a farming village where families struggled to survive in the post war years. We all wore hand me down clothes back then, including Peter and I.

"I bin wachin ya, whachew got there?" It seemed we'd gained an audience. Eric was one of those kids with a distinctive voice. If you didn't look at him you'd think it was a much older person.

"Hi Eric, what you doing here?"

"I wuz birdin on top line an I saw yuh."

"Got any eggs?" We all collect bird's eggs in those innocent days.

"Nah nuffink left. They all hatched."

"Anybody else with you?"  As he spoke Peter stood up and looked around.

"Nah jus me." Eric sat down, picked a long grass stem and started to chew on it. Peter went on,

"'Cos we're not playing in a gang today, just me and Clive."

"I'll sit here an watchew. Not bovered if you don't play wiv me.  Whatchew got?"  He pointed to our Khaki coloured pack. Eric was a good kid and we'd played together often. He'd started coming out in the gangs when he was just 6 years old. He'd be sent out with one of his brothers so his mum could clean up and look after the house. Children just didn't stay indoors much in those days. We had no daytime television. In fact not many households even had a T.V. Computer games hadn't been invented and besides our parents wanted us out of the house in the fresh air as much as possible.

Pete lifted the pack unzipped it and showed Eric the inside. Erics' face lit up as his eyes examined the various cut out sections. His thin finger poking and jabbing at the foam interior.

"Cor brill, yu fink it wuz used in the war?" His voice was full of excitement.

"Might be." said Pete. "Dad found it up by Morkrey." Eric waited a second then added. 

"Denis got some bullits last week from up them woods." Now Eric's older brother Denis was a real character. At fourteen he was fearless, had little respect for law and order and could kick a football further than anyone else we knew.  He also had the best catapult in the village. From the excitement in his voice Eric was clearly proud of his older brother. Peter and I sat down and waited for Eric to continue with his tale.

"What did he do with them, Eric?" Peter asked.

"Him an me uvver bruvver went down the quarry and hit em wiv stones."

The .303 round used by the Lea Enfield rifle, was quite large and quite easy to set off by hitting the end of the casing with something hard. They made quite a bang and it amazes me that no one was ever killed or even hurt while 'playing' with these live ammunition rounds.

Peter got up, lifted the rope and the pack off the grass and started to climb up the bank.  I went back up the track towards the road with Eric close on my heels. He continued chewing his long piece of grass. We reached the road and sat on the steep grass verge.  Eric lay down and stared at the sky.

"Them high up ain't they." I looked up and then at Eric.

"What are mate?"  I had no idea what he was talking about. Without changing his position he lifted an arm and pointed straight up in to the sky.

"Them Larks."  I looked up again using my hand to shade my eyes from the sun.

"Don't see any, where are they?" I was still looking up when I heard Pete shouting.

"You there yet mate?"

" Yes mate throw her down." I was watching the bridge parapet and after a few seconds or so the end of the rope with the parachute pack tied to it, came looping over the top of the bridge. It dropped onto the road.

"Got it Pete? You gotta pull it up a bit." Pete's finger ends and then his head showed over the bridge.

"How much?"

"Yeah, bout another 3 or 4 feet I reckon." I replied looking up. Peter pulled more rope back over the parapet and the pack slowly rose up so that it was about 4 feet from the road.

"OK Pete. Reckon that's it. You wanna come down an see?" His head popped back over the top of the bridge.

"Gimme a minute to get it tied up." And his head was gone again.  I left the rope gently swinging in the breeze that came under the bridge and I turned back to Eric.

"Eh up Eric. You wanna keep a look out. If any cars are coming you give us a shout, Ok?" Eric's face lit up, he just wanted to be a part of something. This was right up his street, quite literally. The tar in the road was heating up.

"You gonna jump wiv it?" He'd sussed the situation without too much bother. I nodded.

"Can I 'av a go?" He added as he jumped up happy to be involved. Eric had stood up a little too quickly, his feet slipped on the dry grass and he sat down hard as he slid on his backside down the grass to the edge of the road. I was already making my way up to see what Peter was doing on the railway tracks. When I reached the top of the embankment Pete was already kneeling by the rails tying the rope.

"We got enough to tie it to both rails Pete?" I thought that might be a stronger anchor.

"Yeah loads left over."  Peters' voice was enthusiastic. He was good at tying knots and pulled on the rope to test it.

"I'll go down and hang on the pack to see if it is high enough off the road".  With that I climbed onto the sloping support wall parapet and slide down to the bottom. Dropped the 3 feet to the grass and stumbled down onto the road. Grabbing the pack I held on to the rope and lifted my feet off the ground. Nothing happened. Peter was once again looking over the top of the bridge as I looked up.

"Good one Pete.  You want me back up?" Peters head nodded a couple of times and then vanished again. Eric stood in the middle of the road still chewing his piece of grass which was getting shorter each time I looked at him.

Once I was back at the top with Pete we pulled the rope up and lay it loosely on the top of the bridge. Peter held the pack out over the edge and then dropped it. I was leaning over the top to see what would happen. The pack went down and the rope unwound without snagging. It was a perfect test. I was full of enthusiasm and excited to get going.

"Yeah it works. So who goes first?" As I remember it neither of us was particularly nervous about it but then we hadn't considered the many things that might go wrong. Looking back on it now it was an incredibly silly and dangerous idea, but we were fearless, we were commandos, we were parachutists invading Germany.

In my baggy shorts pocket I had an old bottle top so we decided to toss it to see who would go first. The winner would take the honours. I gave the top a good flick and it span into the air, as it reached the top of its' trajectory  it hesitated for a micro second then fell back past the bridge wall down to the road. At that moment Peter shouted,

"Ups, I jump".  The bottle top hit the road and bounced several times before stopping. I let Eric go over to it and tell us the result.

"Eric, What is it? Ups or Downs?" There was unmistakable excitement in Pete's voice as he shouted down to Eric.

Eric, still chewing on his shortening grass stalk, quickly found it and without picking it up he turned his head up towards us.

"Ups." Cried Eric, " It's ups.", and he gave us a thumbs up to confirm it.

"Ok Pete, you go first mate." I was a little disappointed but I was also a little relieved at the same time. One end of the rope had been securely fastened to the rails and the other was tied to the parachute pack. Scrambling back up the embankment I helped Peter get into the harness. I pulled hard on the straps just like I'd seen in the war films at the pictures.

"Wooo mate, I gotta breathe." Pete was a big lad and I wanted to make sure the pack was safely strapped to him.

"You nervous Pete?" I asked as I pulled on a strap again.

"Crapping mate." Pete's face was turning whiter.

"It'll be great. I'll do it after you."

We checked the harness straps one more time. We checked the knots. It was now or never. I helped Peter up onto the bridge parapet. He sat dangling his legs over the edge of the bridge and waited 'till I was back down below to make sure the road was clear. There was bird song from the bushes like a fanfare.

"Ok you ready mate. Remember Geronimo. Ok?" I gave Pete the thumbs up and waited. Eric was back sitting on the verge chewing a new length of grass. Little by little and inch by inch my fearless friend moved nervously forward to the very edge of the parapet. Then, when he could go no further, Pete looked at me, and with a shoulder strap gripped tightly in each hand he took a deep breath, and launched.

"G-e-r-o-n-i------------"   SPLATTT.  "AHrrrrrr" was all we heard. The "mo" never came. Peter had plummeted straight down and hit the road with a tremendous thump. His knees, hands, arms and stomach had taken the full force of the impact. The rope had apparently decided NOT to stop him, or even slow him down.

"Arrrrrr you bogger." There was pain in my mate's voice.  I was already at his side. Almost without hesitation the rope tightened again and Peter lifted about 4 ft into the air before dropping back and stopping just short of the road. He was swaying in the harness with his toes dragging on the hot Tarmac and the harness straps were cutting into his groin.

"Wahhhh get me down, get me down." Peter was shouting and crying from shock and pain. I was crying with laughter. At the moment of impact, the road had given Peter a quick make over. He had dozens of tiny tar spots on his knees, arms and tummy.

"What the hell happened?" Peter looked at me imploringly.

"Argh me nuts, get me down mate." I had him in my arms and tried to take the weight off the straps. During all of our carefully made plans and measurements, it was unfortunate that we hadn't known about a phenomenon called elasticity. We WERE only twelve years old. We quickly learned that if you put a heavy load, like Peter, on a length of nylon rope and put it under enormous strain, it will S--T--R--E--T--C--H........   a lot.

Trying to lift Peter on my own was useless I didn't have the strength. I managed to get him more or less upright and he was able to put his feet down and take the pressure off his harness.

"Argh mate my nuts are burning." I went into another fit of laughter as I turned the knob on the front and the clips dropped free. The pack flew away from Pete's back then returned to clip him across the back of his head.

"Christ I've had enough of being a commando mate, I'll stick to being John Wayne." I could hear his voice was near to tearful. Peter was in a bad way.

"You gonna be ok mate?" He was hurting all over but didn't seem to have any serious injuries. I managed to keep from laughter again. I'd put my arm around his back and under his arm as I helped him to hobble to the grass bank. I helped him to sit down. He looked me in the eye for a long second.

"Stop laughing you twat."

"Sorry mate, but it was bloody funny." Well it was, and I couldn't help but laugh. Peter sat for a few minutes, his head in his hands resting on his knees. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder again. We said nothing. It took a few minutes but Pete slowly regained his sense of humour. He looked sideways at me and said in a croaky voice.

"What went wrong mate?" He'd stopped crying.

"Don't know mate, we missed something, the rope got longer somehow, maybe a knot came undone, I don't know, I'll go and see." At that moment I was as confused as Pete.

"Yeah tell me about it."  A slight smile crept across his mouth as he looked at me. Somehow I didn't fancy doing the jump now. Peter sat slowly picking bits of tar off his knees for a minute then he said.

"You can get the soddin rope." No mistake that was a definite smile. I got up and started to climb back up the embankment again.

"OK mate." Somewhere during the events of the last few minutes Eric had disappeared.  He probably thought there was going to be trouble so he was off.  Neither of us had noticed. It took me a while to get the knots undone that had held Peter in his harness, I couldn't see any that had come loose. I had the rope and harness recovered and slung over my shoulder. By the time I was back down Peter had recovered well and was already standing on the road waiting for me. He still had a hand inside his shorts holding his testicles.

"I got a real belly ache mate, my nuts hurt." I started to chuckle again, I couldn't help it.

"Where'd Eric go?" Peter had finally noticed Eric wasn't with us anymore. I didn't answer him, I didn't want him to hear the laughter in my voice.  Reaching the road I took a minute to roll the rope neater and make it easier to hang over my head and shoulder. The two of us then started slowly back towards home.

"Are we taking the rope home as well Pete?" I thought I'd better ask as we didn't want to get into trouble for nicking a rope as well.

"Yeah stick it in dad's shed mate, I'll hide it later."

It had been an adventure, not a very successful one and not one we were likely to repeat, but we'd had a day we weren't likely to forget in a hurry.

Peter was still hurting and as we walked back he had his hand down his shorts a few times to ease the pressure. He was still picking little bits of tar from his arms and tummy. We didn't speak much on the way home. The old Station Master was leaning on his garden gate smoking his pipe as we went passed his house. He just looked at us and puffed white smoke from between his lips. A Bullimores coal lorry trundled past belching black smoke from the exhaust pipe before it turned and disappeared into their coal yard. Diesel fumes filled our noses. The day continued to get hotter, the birds were singing and bees, wasps and flies buzzed along the grass verges unaware and unaffected by the two pals sauntering home. Neither of us said much.

 Peter had been brave, he was hurting and I was proud to call him my best friend.

What neither of us had realised as walked home was we'd missed a once in a lifetime opportunity to be famous. Many years later I was sitting in our small living room watching a television program when the realisation hit me. I called out to my wife.

"Hey, come and look at this." My long-suffering wife came into the room from the kitchen.

"What is it now?" It was obvious from her voice she was showing her normal patience and interest in my T.V. watching habits.

"Look at that. Just look at that." I turned to face my wife and with the most serious face I could muster I said earnestly. "Do you realise that me and Pete invented that?" My wife looked back at the T.V. screen.

As we watched, another brave soul launched himself from a bridge high over a river.

We'd invented Bungee jumping and hadn't known it.

Author's Note

FROM A BOOK OF SHORT STORIES ABOUT MY LIFE.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is a very good story, funny and entertaining. You brought these boys to life. As an adult, I could see the real danger they were in, and hoped, as I read, that no one would break a bone or worse. I'm glad it turned out at well as it did. Children have incredible luck sometimes.

You made one mistake that I found:
We all wore hand me down clothes back then, including Peter and I.(Should be Peter and me.)