Sing Us A Song Ma, Before We Say Goodbye by Johnny Slater

Author:Johnny Slater
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brown Dog Books

CHAPTER 13

THE YANKS, AND MORE, ARE COMING

16 April, 1942

We met up the next morning, early. Far too excited to sleep in late. The whole gang of us gathered on Flinders Street corner, anxiously twiddling our thumbs. Punch too, wondering what all the fuss and noise was about. Well, as me Da always said, there’s no show without Punch! We couldn’t let him miss out on welcoming the G.I.s. None of us had ever seen a real-life Yank before. Only in the movies.

The first Americans had arrived in England in January 1942, “Over-paid, oversexed and over here” as the gripe went, but not so for us in Liverpool, we couldn’t wait for the G.I.s to arrive. American servicemen were stationed from one end of Britain to the other. Sent in advance of the planned invasion of Europe. They were more than willing to join in the fight against the evil of Hitler. Sailors, soldiers and airmen arrived in convoys of thousands. Ferried over the Atlantic in the droves. They arrived with full pockets and bellies, something we hadn’t seen for a long time. They shared an abundance of all manner of things to boost our flagging morale. The British had staved off the Germans almost single-handedly for more than two years and now the influx of American troops was to be met in Liverpool with welcome relief, and more than a smattering of curiosity.

We poured along the streets of Kirkdale, mingling with the huge crowds all the way up to Lime Street Station about three miles away. Adults, kids and more than a handful of dogs swarmed as one while the khaki trucks and jeeps roared in the distance, the smell of burning rubber mixing with engine smoke and fried bacon.

“What the bloody hell is that?” shouted me Bombo. He pointed to a monster machine with a clawed yellow bucket looming ahead.

“God knows,” I said. “Look at the bloody size of it, and clock that massive mouth!”

“That’s a bulldozer, lad,” smirked Mr Cooper from Aspinall Street. His teeth were yellow and broken like the Ten Commandments. They wobbled in his smug, know-it-all face. His tatty, over-coated shoulders shrugged like we should have known it was a bulldozer. We turned away. The Yanks streamed out: G.I.s, tall and broad. Giants clad in boots of a size I couldn’t imagine. We followed the handsome G.I.s like sheep behind a gang of shepherds. Clunky boots marched heavily in perfect time. It could’ve almost been a khaki green wave rolling in from the River Mersey, riding along with a convey of spluttering engines. Crowds poured all over the G.I.s, dishing out hundreds of cups of tea and food.

The noise was deafening. Horns blaring, screams, shrieks, cheers. I didn’t know which was louder, the screeching engines or hundreds of voices. Everyone was either talking, laughing or hollering. Music blasted through the streets, different songs all mixed together. People cheered and whooped, waving hands in a sea of floating G.I.s. Flaying arms grabbed for a quick touch of sweaty, American sleeves.

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