SPECIAL CHURCH
PARADE
The notice on Daily Orders
was terse but explicit. “There will
be a Special
Church Parade for Jewish
service men and women at the
Central Synagogue ,
Birmingham on Sunday March
23rd 1945 at 1100 hrs.
The address will be given
by the Senior Jewish
Chaplain to the Forces. Ratings who
wish to attend should
report to the Regulating
Office.”
There were five of us on HMS Duke.
We’d all been called up into the
Navy in the last couple of
months and we were going through our basic training
before being sent off to
learn our various trades. The
“ship” was sixty miles from
the nearest sea and we spent
our days square bashing, steering imaginary
battleships and rowing
whalers round the boating lake. We
five knew each
other, not because of any
natural tendency to congregate but because of our
isolated state on
Sundays. Well scrubbed, highly
polished in our number one
uniforms we paraded with our
shipmates and marched to the chapel complex.
Rigid at attention we
awaited the call from the Chief Petty Officer. “Fall out all
Jews, Muslims, atheists and
other ’eathens.” Then it was back
into denim
overalls and galley duties
while the others were at their devotions.
We all wanted
to go to Birmingham to
escape from scrubbing out pans and carting away
kitchen
rubbish.
The Regulating Office was very off-hand about the whole business.
“There’s only five of you
and there’s ’undreds of your lot at the Yankee air base
up the road. You’ll report up there at o nine ’undred
hours and travel with
them.”
We approached the American camp that Sunday with a mixture of
trepidation and
curiosity. Our twice weekly visits
to the cinema had prepared us
for an encounter with the
rich, handsome, violent, over-sexed Yanks.
A relaxed
guard at the gate took the
cigarette out of his mouth to direct us to one of a
group of covered
lorries. As we climbed over the
tailboard we spotted our fellow
passengers crouched at the
far end and peering intently at a pair of dice. “Snake
eyes!” yelled one. “Aw shoot” drawled another throwing down
a couple of pound notes and heaving himself on to the bench which ran around the
wall of the transport. He noticed
us. “Hey - Lookit, the Limeys. You goin’ to the Temple with us?” We nervously murmured a greeting as he
stuck out a large hand. “Sergeant
Hank Goldberg from Chicago Illinois.”
By now the others had settled themselves on the bench and were eyeing us
curiously and with some
amusement.
“Where are you guys from?”
asked a short dark pfc. We started
to
explain about our training
ship but they were more interested in what they called
our home towns. To them Stamford Hill and Brixton
sounded like country
villages and they were
amazed to find that, apart from Martin who came from
Salford, we were all
Londoners. None of them had got to
London yet and we
were bombarded with
questions about the big smoke. Most
of their curiosity
was directed to Soho, they
called it SoHO, and Piccadilly where they believed the
streets were paved with
nubile and willing girls. To be
honest none of us
eighteen year olds had much
experience of the demi-monde but we had the
honour of our country and of
the Navy to defend so we satisfied them with vivid
descriptions of the beauty
and insatiable lust of the West-end girls drawn from
our adolescent
fantasies. By the time we reached
Birmingham we felt well
established as European bon
vivants and men of the world.
We were herded into the
ornate Victorian synagogue which was already
nearly full of uniformed men
with a small group of ATS and WAAFs and a
larger number of American
WACs penned into the women’s section.
The service
started almost immediately
and we were treated to the unusual sight of rabbis in
immaculate army officer’s
uniforms covered by robes and prayer shawls and
topped by the cylindrical
black velour hats of the orthodox.
The few traditional prayers
and hymns were received politely if without overmuch enthusiasm. The address,
part sermon part pep talk, was about the holy mission, especially for us, of
destroying Naziism and the equally holy mission of uprooting Japanese
fascism. It ended with warnings
about keeping ourselves pure, remembering how distraught our mothers would be if
we failed. We finished by roaring
out Odon Olom the closing hymn in
fast time, received the rabbinical blessing and piled out into the weak spring
sunshine.
“Where are you guys goin’
now?” asked Hank. We looked at each
other.
“We’re going back with you I
suppose.” Said Martin. “Well we
ain’t goin’ back
yet. How about you come and eat with us at
our club.” They had the transport,
We were chronically
skint. Happily we had no choice.
The American Services Club was a large dance hall which had been
converted into a home from
home for the allies. As we
approached the red brick
building we noticed a
rhythmic thumping and by the time we got to the door we
could hear the familiar
sound of “American Patrol” in the Glenn Miller
arrangement blaring from
inside. We knew the record
well. But - this was no
record. It was a live band. “American Air Force Band” said
Hank. “They’re
visitin’ this week.” We were completely overcome. The great Glenn Miller had
crashed into the sea only a
few months earlier but the band were still together
and we were going to see
them - live! We waited while Hank
arranged for us to
go in as his guests. Then through the foyer and into the
hall.
The music had changed to “In The Mood” still one of the icon tunes of my
generation. The dance floor was covered with a
writhing jitterbugging mass of
khaki uniforms with a few
colourful dresses. Legs kicked,
skirts swirled, feet
stamped in frenzy as a
player rose to play the Tex Beneke saxophone solo. We
Brits stood transfixed. The Americans took it more
casually. “Let’s go eat” said
Hank.
We went into the cafeteria
and goggled again. The counter was
covered
in food that we had not seen
in such quantity for years. Eggs,
butter, cheese,
ham (Ham?) were there in
great piles. Baskets of fruit with
oranges bananas
and pineapples decorated the
shelves at the back. We grabbed
trays and filled
plates sitting together at a
long table. Some of the Yanks had
taken Coca-Cola
but Hank pulled a flat
bottle of Bourbon whisky from a secret recess in his
uniform and poured some into
our glasses. “Lechayim” he
toasted us. “Mi zoll
leben iber a
yoor” responded Maurice
automatically. By the time we had
finished the last spoonful
of pineapple and cream and drunk the last drop of
strong coffee the bottle was
empty and we were feeling very mellow.
Puffing at Lucky Strikes we
wandered into the main hall to find that the
music session was over and
it had been converted into a cinema.
We sat sleepily
through a Betty Grable
musical supported by a March of Time and yet another
and very graphic exhortation
to keep ourselves pure, but this time we were given
very explicit instructions
on the precautions to take if we found this impossible.
By the time the films had
finished it was time to eat again.
More whisky
appeared and the world
seemed delightful if a trifle out of focus. Sitting in the
cafeteria, chatting to the
Yanks in a leisurely way we took our time over the meal
until the strains of
“Moonlight Serenade” told us that the musicians were back
on the
bandstand.
We were not quite sure how
we would be received by the local girls in the
club. After all we were younger, poorer and
certainly less glamorous than the
Yanks. However we had one great advantage. Although we could not compete
as jitterbugs unlike them we
were all fairly competent ballroom dancers. In the
Jewish youth clubs in which
we had grown up dancing was practically the only
way boy could meet girl and certainly the only way in which boy
could hold girl,
at least on the
premises. When Johnny Desmond rose
to sing “At Last”, a slow
fox-trot, we came into our
own. A very pretty dark haired WAC
came up to me
and commanded “Come on
sailor. Let’s see you strut your
stuff.” She held on
tightly as I glided forward
remembering all that Miss Monica Marshmont
(Ballroom ballet and
tap. Individual or group classes.)
had taught me. I
discovered that
transatlantic dancing involved much closer contact than I was
used to and that cheek to
cheek was the fashion also bosom to bosom and thigh
to thigh. Talking was not possible as my nose was
buried somewhere behind her
right ear. Anyway I did not want to talk. I was away at an American high
school senior prom dancing
with Judy Garland. I was Andy Hardy
and outside
was a convertible car whose
cover went up and down at the touch of a button.
I came back to Birmingham as the music stopped. “Come over and meet
my buddies” said the
WAC. She nodded to a group of
uniformed girls who sat
at a table with my
shipmates. “We saw you at the
Temple.” she said. “My
name’s Carole. I’m from Flatbush. You ever hear of Flatbush?” A
life of
intensive cinema going had
given me an honours course in the geography of New
York City and she was
delighted when I said that I knew of the suburb and its
middle class Jewish
population. "Most of these guys are
farm hands from the
sticks” she grumbled. “They know nuthin’ from nuthin’”. We sat at the table
where Maurice was in intense
conversation with a statuesque blonde, Martin was
creating squeals of laughter
with his Lancashire accent, Sid, the son of a
Whitechapel kosher butcher
was swapping life stories with Sadie the daughter of
a Bronx kosher butcher and
Norman had found a petite redhead called Gloria
who shared his passion for
the art of Bing Crosby.
We all danced in turn with
each of the girls but eventually got back to the
one we had started
with. At one point I spotted Hank
across the room. He
grinned, made an O with his
thumb and forefinger and raised it in the OK sign.
Meanwhile the band played
on; Chattanooga Choo Choo, Kalamazoo, String of
Pearls, on and on. Maurice and his blonde left us and we
guessed they had gone
to look for a quieter and
more private spot.
I could not have cared
less. Made bold by the whisky I was
sitting with my arm round the prettiest of WACS chatting and laughing and
flirting and listening to the greatest popular music ever played. “I don’t suppose I’ll see you
again.” I said. It was more an appeal than a
statement. “No” she replied. “We’re pullin’ out next week. “Can I write to you?” I asked. “Sure. I’ll send you an address when I get
there.” She never did of course and
really I never expected her to.
Suddenly the band went into
“Moonlight Serenade” again. We
danced for the last time and it was over.
As the final notes faded away she pressed herself even closer to me and
planted a great juicy smacking passionate kiss on my mouth. I kissed her back with equal
passion. We were still locked
together when I felt a thump on my shoulder. It was Hank, “Come on lover boy, Time to go home. “Goodbye sailor. Take care of yourself,” she said and
hurried away.
“What’s the time?” I asked
as we made for the waiting truck.
“It’s
around midnight.” somebody
said. Strewth! We were still in training and had
to be back “on board” before
midnight. No overnight leave for
us. The only one
who was unperturbed was
Maurice who had already become our barrack room
lawyer with a fair knowledge
of King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions.
“We’re not on shore
leave. We’re on duty.” “How are we on duty?” I asked.
“Church parade counts as
duty” said Maurice firmly. We were
not completely
convinced but there was
nothing we could do about it now.
I leaned back on the bench
in our transport and savoured the events of
the day. The music and the dancing and the pretty
girl from Flatbush and the
food and the music and the
girl and - sod it - I had forgotten to get autographs
from the band. Another bottle of whisky was opened and
passed round. The
group was quiet now, some
even managing to sleep against the canvas wall of the
truck. We got to the gates of the Duke just
after two, thanked Hank and the
others and climbed down
unsteadily.
We waved as the truck drove
away and turned to find a reception
committee waiting. The guard had been turned out and stood
menacingly in line
facing us. In front of them, feet apart and
swinging a nightstick gently was the
Chief Master at Arms. He glared at us. “Where the bleet’nell ‘ave you lot
been?” We gathered in a rocky line and saluted
unsteadily. “Speshul Church
Parade shuh!” we chorused. “Speshul Church Parade.”
