The Henry Green School

The Henry Green School

Our little town of Bicester is located in the north of Oxfordshire, United Kingdom. At the beginning of the Second World War, the Royal Air Force opened an airfield in our region to aid in evacuating women, children, and the elderly. The goal was to save as many lives as possible. Henry remembered the grown-ups always declaring, ‘Our children are our country's future. We must look after them.’ The ending of the War in 1945 brought poverty and sadness. The hardship in rebuilding life was arduous. The ending of the war brought jubilation, but we also craved normality, and to do this, our industrious leaders put a lot of effort into assisting us in repairing our surroundings. The townspeople saw the help these leaders gave bring order to our woeful lives once more, and this helped them work with vigour.

On the outskirts of our incredible town lies an abandoned airfield called Bicester Airfield.Although clear red and white ‘No entry’ signs were tethered to the surrounding fences, and although the gates were strongly secured with the best money could buy chains and locks. This did not keep intruders out. Vagrants cut holes in the fence to gain entry to deface the abandoned buildings or live in them. Keeping them out was a nightmare. The council wanted to turn the airfield into a museum to aid our children’s educational fund. A few out-of-commission planes and army vehicles remained behind after the war. An old Biplane was found in the back of a very run-down hangar. These relics would become display pieces to remember the War. Some of the trucks will be reconditioned and utilized as transport for visitors to the different sections in the museum. It would add a wartime experience to the museum. Sadly, this museum will be a reminder of the hardships and sadness people lived through.

My name is Henry Green. I proudly carry my grandfather’s name. I have been told I look like him, tall, strong as an ox, with dark hair and green eyes. I am 15 years old and looking forward to my life here in Bicester. My family has been farmers here as far back as I can remember. My grandfather built a vegetable farm in Bicester, mainly farming cabbage. I hope to carry on the good name we have built over the years. I go to school in Bicester and will eventually go to a farming college to learn new farming techniques. I am lucky that way, because my father has always believed in a good education. He realizes the benefits of learning new ideas.He would say, “Son, new ideas are great ideas. Put them into practice. If they don’t work, try something new until you have found your niche.”

My father always said, “Danger lurks in corners and comes in many forms. Stay away from the airbase. Until the council has decided what to do with the area, it remains unsafe.” It was a Saturday afternoon. I felt like taking a walk. I informed my parents (I like to think that I am a posh English gentleman) that I will be walking near the small stream that runs past our home.We use this stream to water our cabbages. A small generator pumps the water through pipes laid underground to a sprinkler system set up in the cabbage patches. The sprinklers worked so well that my father helped set up the same sprinkler system in other farms. This way of watering saved our little town, and we fed ourselves as well as selling our produce to the surrounding villages. Anyway, off I rambled, the weather is warm. I passed old man Tippets' apple farm. He gave me a juicy red apple to eat on my walk. I thanked him and carried on. I never made the trip to the stream. Someone jumped me from behind. Six hours later, I hadn’t returned home. My parents were frantic with worry. My father telephoned the police.“How long has Henry been gone?”“We last saw him six hours ago.” “Sorry, Mr. Green, we have to wait 24 hours. Nothing we can do now. We send out a search party tomorrow. We all know the area well, and so does Henry. I am sure he isn’t lost.” My father was having none of this. He arranged his own search party with our neighbour’s. They searched the area thoroughly, calling my name all the time. The searchers passed old man Tippet's apple farm, and a school friend of mine, Simon Block, knocked on his door.“Good evening, Mr. Tippet, sir. We are looking for Henry Green. Did he walk past your farm earlier on?”Mr. Tippet spat and said, “Yes, he did. I gave him a red apple to eat while he walked.” “Thank you, sir.” He nodded and closed the door.Simon, a dark-haired, skinny lad with brown eyes, relayed his find to my father. He knew they were on the right track. The sun sank fast in the evening. A cool wind shuffled through the trees. Simon stopped for a breather. He stepped on something squishy. Looking down, he recognized the shape of a half-eaten apple. Simon stood staring through the fence of the old airfield. He felt a chill run down his spine.My father asked, “What is it, lad? Speak Up!”“Something is wrong, Mr. Green. I have an odd feeling about this place.”“Henry has been warned not to go near the airbase. If he has, he will be getting a whipping from me.”Simon looked at Mr. Green and nodded. The search party moved on. Everyone kept calling out “Henry, Henry.”Simon heard a scuffle and a thudding sound coming from one of the hangars in the airfield. He called out, “Mr. Green, one moment please.” He climbed through a hole in the fence, possibly left by a vagrant, and stepped onto the air base. The searchers stopped and looked at him, and shook their heads. The villagers are very aware of the dangers that lurk in every nook on this airbase. Simon ignored the worried looks given by the search party. Simon felt uneasy, but in his heart, he knew he should make sure. It could be nothing. He noticed a trail of blood spots on the tarmac and then on the cement leading into a hangar. “Hey, looks like fresh blood. We need to search the hangers. Some vagrants could have caught him and harmed him.” Shouted Simon.‘Hello, Henry.’ My friend shouted, “Hello.”My dad ran home to get bolt cutters to cut the chain that held the gates closed. Once the lock was cut through, the searchers rushed through to scout the area and hangers. My friend found me sitting in the pilot’s seat of the old, dilapidated Biplane from World War 1. A skeleton sat next to me.“Over here.” He shouted.

My eyes closed, and blood droplets dried on the side of my face. I looked pale, but I felt peaceful. Simon pulled me out of the plane. Another searcher pulled the skeleton out. An elderly neighbour asked, “I wonder who the skeleton is?” “I am not sure.” I heard someone else say. “Perhaps we should go to the authorities and let them dig up information on this mysterious person.” To my parents’ relief, my eyes opened. The only word I said was “Grandfather.” My parents glanced at the skeleton, then each other. My mother said, “It can’t be.” “What happened, son?” my father asked. “I think I tripped and knocked my head on a stone. When I finally came around, I was sitting on. the plane. I tried to shout for help, but I felt dizzy. I think I drifted back to sleep.” “Do you know if someone knocked you out?” asked my mother. I shook my head. Simon yelled, “Hey, you there?” My father and Simon ran after a rather bedraggled-looking man. He was lurking behind the shed, watching. He ran like a wild man when Simon saw him. “Catch him.” Shouted my father, running after Simon.Simon caught the man and pinned him down. “What are you looking for? What do you want?” Simon screamed at him. His eyes were wild with fear. The soldier, still dressed in his army uniform, now tattered, shook with fear. In a heavy German accent, he said, “No speak Englisch. Me no eat. See him eat.” Simon pinned the German against a tree. “How long have you been without food?” asked Mr. Green.“War end. Steal.” “That’s about six months.” Said Simon. “I think we must hand you over to the police.” “Bitte, no. Die Polizei wird mich ins Gefängnis stecken.“ He said, tears streaming down his cheeks.“Does anyone know how to speak German?” asked Mr. Green. A tall man stepped forward, whom we know as Mr. Cutler. Mr. Cutler owns our village post office. I remember he once told me he learned to speak German from his neighbour, who spent a considerable time in Germany on business. What kind of business, I wouldn’t know. It all sounded dodgy. Mr. Cutler was asked to tell the soldier that he could come home with my father, have a bath, clean clothes, and some food. The soldier could not stop thanking my father, “Danke, Danke.”It worked out that I was so engrossed in my apple that I got a fright when the soldier stood in front of me holding out his hand for something to eat. I tripped and banged my head. To keep me safe, the soldier carried me to the Biplane and placed me inside. It just so happened that the skeleton was already there. I drifted in and out of consciousness - dreaming.

My mother sat with me while Mrs. Tippet tended to my wounded head. I could feel an enormous headache forming from the blow to my head. I felt dizzy and delirious, mumbling about my dream. “I dreamt I was flying in a Biplane in the Great War. We were hit by the enemy. A German plane sprang from nowhere and started shooting at us. The direct hit hit us in the engine and caused our plane to smoke and fall. We spiraled down. Grandad was screaming, ‘We’ve been hit. We’ve been hit.’ Then we struck the ground head-on, which caused the propeller to bend backwards. Grandad’s last dying thoughts were of his family. His son had married young. His wife was expecting a wee one. How he longed to meet his grandchild. I woke up again in the hospital with stitches in my head, staying overnight for observation. While in bed at home, my mother pulled a chair closer, she said. “Henry, we think that the hit on your head caused you to think you were with your grandfather. It was just a bad nightmare.”“What about the skeleton?”“The police found it was a very old school display, a teaching aid for Biology. Nothing more than that.” “No. Grandfather was with me.”“Sorry, Henry. Gets some sleep.” Constable Rawling came to visit my father, “Sir, we searched the airfield again and found this.” Constable Rawling held up a World War I medal, “The Star”. The Star medal was handed out to those brave British forces who had served in France or Belgium in the First World War. The medal is a bronze star hanging from a red, white, and blue ribbon, reflecting the French Tricolours. My mother gaped at the sight of the medal.She said “Honey, your father received one of those medals.”“Yes, he did. I wonder if your father was really with Henry. Too protect him.”Mr. Green shook his head, “Naw, can’t be so.” The constable turned the medal over to show Mr. Green, “Mr. Green the medal belonged to a Mr. Henry Green for services in France during World War I.” Mrs. Green collapsed into a chair “He was there to protect Henry.”“Yes, so it seems.” Henry Green’s ‘The Star’ Medal was placed on the mantel for all to admire.

I was up and about four days after coming out of the hospital and ready to go. After my little incident, the council decided it was high time something was done about Bicester’s Airfield. An advertisement was placed in our local paper, known as The Bicester Chronicles. It read: Members needed to serve on the Bicester Airfield committee.Please contact the council’s secretary, Mrs. Slocomb, if you wish to be a part of a revolutionary difference.

My dad and I, Mr. Tippet the apple farmer, Constable Rawling, and my friend Simon applied to the council to serve on the Bicester Airbase construction committee. Mrs. Slocomb, Counselor Warden’s secretary, would also assist the committee as secretary, along with Counselor Warden heading the committee. Mr. Cutler was asked to relay the message to the German soldier that if he did not want the village to turn him over to the German army for desertion, then he must join the committee in restoring the Airfield. He agreed to assist in recreating the base into a working museum alongside the rest of the villagers.

We soon realized how difficult the task ahead was going to be. We were happy when the villagers and farmers came together to assist. Mr. Brand from the hardware store supplied the wood, nails, and other essential materials for building. Mr. Miller assisted with plumbing supplies and free supervision on the installation of his products. A new tarmac was laid with thanks from the town council. And so the buildings progressed nicely. The main building, used to house the army leaders, was soon turned into dormitories and a school for primary school children. The villagers worked day and night over the next few weeks, only taking Sunday off to rest and for worship.

Simon was sitting outside in the shade of a tree during a lunch break when the German soldier joined him. His English definitely improved. He held out his hand and said to Simon, “Hello, my name is Fredrik Bauer.” Simon stared at the outstretched hand, took it, and shook firmly.“Hello, Fredrik. My name is Simon.” “Thank you for not turning me over to the German Consulate. I have enjoyed my stay in Bicester. I would like to apply to stay here for as long as possible. Who could help me?”“Your English is good. I think the best person to speak to is the head of this committee, Counselor Warden. I am sure he will be able to help you.”“Thank you. Please excuse me.” Simon nodded.Herr Bauer went in search of Counselor Warden when he could not find him. The next best person to see would be Mrs. Slocomb, the committee secretary.“Hello, Mrs. Slocomb, would you please direct me to Counselor Warden. I have something to discuss with him.” Enquired Herr Fredrik Bauer. “Good afternoon, Herr Bauer. It is best to make an appointment to see the Counselor. He has been extremely busy of late. Let’s say tomorrow morning at 11.30, just before lunch.”“Thank you, Mrs. Slocomb. I will see him then. Good day.” Fredrik Bauer tipped his hat and left her office.

Counselor Warden was waiting in his office when Herr Fredrik Bauer walked in. “Good morning, Herr Bauer. You wished to see me.”“Yes, sir.” “Please come in and sit.” Fredrik Bauer got straight to the point. “Sir, everyone in Bicester has been extremely kind to me, especially with the incident with the young boy. I was given a chance to prove myself. I would like to know if the village would allow me to stay for good.”“By Jove, Fredrik, Mr. Green and I were just talking about you the other day. That is exactly what we wanted to propose to you. You have definitely proved your worth to our small community. Once the airfield is completed, we would like to offer you a job as caretaker of the Bicester working museum. There, of course, will be housing included. A small cottage on the property should suffice. We will go through the proper authorities to get you settled in as a member of our community. Then after 5 years, if you wish to stay on, you will be eligible for citizenship.” “I am most grateful. Thank you.” Herr Fredrik Bauer said his goodbyes and got up to leave.

Two weeks before the opening ceremony, disaster struck. The road collapsed. It was found that a tunnel had been constructed below the tarmac, which was used to hide the children being evacuated. They found cots, leftover ration packs, bedding, candles, and oil lamps that were used during those dark days. The committee decided to include this in the museum's repertoire. So a construction company outlined where the entrance would have been and reconstructed that. The committee decided to turn the tunnel into a camp for field trips for families to stay for short periods of time. They would learn how to enjoy the wonders of the outdoors. Just another activity added to bring money in towards the much-needed funds for the towns’ schools. And the excitement of sleeping on an abandoned airfield.

Mr. Tippet, the apple farmer, brought in his crane. The school's new name was lifted and secured to the roof. The school was named in honour of my grandfather, The Henry Green School. At the opening ceremony, I was given the honour of pulling the drawstring attached to a small red curtain to unveil the plaque that stated: In memory of those who were safely evacuated.

The press was called in from all over.A good photo of the school and one of the whole base found its way into all the papers with a caption saying ‘Dedicated to our future generations.’ The article told of a wonderful idea of a working museum that brings new life into something that took lives.

THE END.