Soap, soap, soap; what will you swap for soap?”…

“Has anyone a gas mantle? Swap for whatever”…

“Will swap good pair brown shoes, size 4, for warm skirt”…

“Man’s grey suit and braces, for sweet-corn or whatever permissible”…

…and so, on and on –  the daily papers’ “swap columns” made interesting reading and just sometimes we found it possible to comply with some very odd needs. 1941 was turning out to be a very strange year indeed. I once traded some new curtain material for sugar beet syrup (and then at the end of the occupation totally regretted it when I tried to replace those curtains at a reasonable price!). It is certainly unusual what necessity will force us to do.

The “Exchange Mart” advertisements in the Islands’ newspapers were a vital part of community life and engendered a real spirit of cooperation. It was good to be able to help a fellow-islander out. Besides, in a ‘help and be helped’ environment, one never knew when they would be the one in need. The phrase “whatever permissible…” was added because the trading in or bartering of certain restricted or rations goods and food-stuffs (especially) was strictly ‘verboten’.  

In time, it came to bear the cheeky, hidden sentiment … “whatever is NOT permissible.”  Likewise … “for what..?” and … “or what?” were used to heighten the hint of rebellion.

The ‘personal’ ads were also a site for revolution against the system, revealing another tendency for civil disobedience. For instance, a seemingly innocent message like:  “Ernest Albiges offers reward for lost or stolen black sow with brown marking on flank…” which could well be used as a notice that a beast had been ‘removed’ from an officially inventoried herd, slaughtered and the meat was available for the black market. The advertised notice would be used to support the ‘official report’ that the farmer was required to submit to the German Authorities, advising of the ‘loss of’ a stolen or strayed animal.

Between the Essential Commodities Committee and the German administration, the control of foodstuffs and livestock needed to be well controlled in order to maintain a steady supply of the basics of life…as much, apparently, for the troops as anyone. With the perception that the ‘occupiers’ were getting a far better deal than the ‘occupied’, the black market was alive and well. Farmers became especially adept at simple deceptions upon which the rather droll administration were slow to pick up as root crops with too much soil still clinging to them were helped to boost the weight of each sack at the weighbridge and tomato boxes contained an over-generous supply of tissue paper padding.

It was rumoured that on one occasion, a plain, ‘pink’ pig…the most common colour…was found to have died [genuinely] of a disease, which required a quick burial in order to prevent an outbreak. One of the authorities’ veterinary officers was called to inspect the animal and supervise its burial and authorise a stock inventory change. After the vet’s departure, the animal was dug up, washed thoroughly and taken to a neighbouring farmer’s where one from his herd was slaughtered. The diseased pig lay out in its place, having been suitably daubed with some dark vegetable dye to resemble a natural colour patch on its flank, ready for a vet’s inspection. After inspecting it, he certified the death and officially amended that farmer’s stock inventory. The slaughtered animal’s meat was put on the black market. The diseased beast was the re-washed, re-marked and laid out yet again, on its other side. It was reputed that the same animal was certified dead on no less than four farms! (In difficult times, the odd ‘urban myth’ can help lift flagging spirits no end!) 

During these days when the dreariness was taking its toll, our church’s weekly ‘Women’s Bright Hour’ (which I had initiated), really took off. Each Tuesday gathering was planned so that we could have different speakers. Looking back, I wonder how we found so many who were willing to take part but it was like an oasis in a desert for the many women whose life had been so drastically changed by the circumstances which had overtaken us all. The rows of bicycles, propped up against the outside walls of the church increased each week as more and more ladies attended. (Later, as cycles became the target of theft, due to their increased importance as transportation so the attached schoolroom became a safe ‘garage’.) We sang the hymns which gave us comfort and inspiration. Experiences of how we were coping were shared, useful tips and hints on innovation and economising were exchanged and the truths of God’s Word were shared in a practical manner that applied to our particular situation. The Lord Jesus Christ met with us indeed and the awareness of the presence of God’s Holy Spirit was precious, as we shared our faith and received much blessing. Likewise our Sunday morning services became a real powerhouse of blessing. The pews were full as Gilbert preached and taught with real authority, opening God’s word and applying its truths so accurately and honestly. Sunday morning Communion services brought us into a fresh understanding of our oneness in The Kingdom of God and we left our times together feeling we could face any emergency or contingency in the strength of The Lord, Who was truly our friend and saviour, strong shelter and refuge in every time of danger and difficulty. Events like these and others in the life of church and community, forged friendships of real depth and lasting quality. (At the time of rewriting my diary, many of those friends are now in God’s presence but their memory is of immeasurable value.)

Gilbert’s maturity as a Christian leader and pastor in the church and community was growing by leaps and bounds, as was his credibility and acceptance. They say it is pressure that turns coal into diamond. It was for ‘such a time as this’, it seemed, that he had been being prepared to meet the needs of so many people and God was giving him the physical and emotional strength to do just that, along with a measure of wisdom beyond his years .

Christmas drew near once again. There were few delicacies to brighten the occasion, unless one had still a few tins of fruit or jellies stored away from earlier days. Friends gave and shared what they had in the true spirit of the season as familiar carols were sung, the beautiful Christmas story repeated from pulpits throughout the Islands, and all rejoiced in the unchangeable truth – God loved the world so much that he sent His only Son, born in a land under military occupation, that whoever on earth believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. Decorations were hung in homes, shops and churches and on everyone’s lips were yuletide greetings, often with the hopeful postscript, “…and perhaps the war will be over before next Christmas.”

The day he arrived was a red-letter day. With a pale fawn coat, a white patch on his chest (that looked a little like the white triangle of a shirt that appeared between the lapels of a suit jacket), Laddie was a spaniel of a ‘not much looked-into’ line of pedigree, to which the description “a cross between a hearth- rug and door-mat” would be a generous compliment. He was cuddly and lovable with a very long tail which added to his ‘different’ appearance…but we adored him. We managed to feed him on scraps and offal, obtainable at that time for the feeding of animals, and dog biscuits. As time went by and the biscuits ran out of stock and offal became restricted, it became more difficult.

One of the most devastating factors of the occupation for the civilian population was the monotony. Time moved slowly…oh, so slowly. Tiresome routines and restrictions upon all manner of things, those that were taken for granted in the normal, replaced well-ordered rounds of everyday living in pre-occupation Guernsey. There were curfews, limitations, new laws and orders. It was a constant flow of orders, orders and more orders, many of which contradicted each other within 24 hours.  Above all there was the scarcity and blandness of available food. The staple diet contracted until, in the last months of the occupation, it consisted of turnips, carrots and parsnips, washed down with acorn coffee, the afore-mentioned blackberry-tea or other inventive substitutes (added to the menu as the isolation progressed).

At first, the abattoirs (where they butchered the meat destined for the menus of the German Authorities’ dining tables) saved the blood and intestines of slaughtered animals for pet food. However, with dwindling food stocks, more offal was made available for human consumption. The blood, when combined with breadcrumbs, suet or coarse-ground grain could be used to make black pudding. Intestines could be either rendered down to a heavy, yellow fat (ideal for frying black pudding), or cooked as a highly sought-after delicacy, known to the connoisseurs of the community as ‘pipes and tripes’.

Cambridge Park was handy to our house and ideal for Laddie’s walks on the lead so, Gilbert and I made this welcome diversion a part of our daily routine. It was an outing beneficial to all three of us. We had a kennel near the back door and Laddie was a cute and well-behaved puppy.

And then one morning, the kennel was empty!

We called and called but no Laddie. So, bicycles out, we set off in search of him, but with no joy. Later in the day I was told by a friend that they heard he had been seen on the back of a lorry with some German soldiers, on the other side of the island, his white ‘shirt-front’ and distinctive tail giving his identity away. Sadly, I thought my pet was gone forever. Certainly the soldiers were not going to return him…but as the days passed, I continued my calling and searching…just in case.

Early one morning, upon opening the back door, I was greeted with the unexpected sight of a log tail protruding from the kennel. With a cry of absolute delight, I called Gilbert, who came quickly to see what the fuss was all about. Thin, bedraggled, and exhausted, there lay our Laddie. He must have run for miles following his instinct to return to his home and he lay sleeping the whole day…just where he had flopped… with his tail in that same position…totally worn out.

 Next morning it was like he’d never been away. Gilbert went and got some scraps of horse meat, which we had gleaned from the slaughterhouse, and he gobbled it down. Then, tail wagging, running in small circles, barking and bounding around the garden in anticipation of a walk, he delighted us once again with his exuberance for life. What a faithful friend! 

Sometime later, when we had little or nothing of sustenance to feed him, we were forced to make the difficult decision to take him on his last walk to the vet. We never had another dog since Laddie. He was an ‘occupation treasure’ who helped fill our days with interest… a’ little ray of sunshine’, lent to brighten our way for a while.