By Kingsley Pearce

 I think it was towards the end of the war circa 1944, when one morning I was told that there was an unexploded bomb in the back garden of a house almost opposite to us on the other side of the Avenue.  Sure enough, when I looked out of the front bedroom window, outside number 8, there was a khaki coloured medium sized army lorry marked Bomb Disposal, but no signs of any activity.  However, I had also noticed that up against the front garden wall of the property, and adjacent to the small alleyway giving rear access to the back gardens of numbers 6 and 8, was a large bicycle and, yes, it had a double cross bar. This meant only one thing to me, such large black bicycles with double crossbars were almost without exception ridden by a local policeman but, if so, where was he and had his presence something to do with the bomb?

How then was I going to be able to see and inspect any bomb found to be in the back garden of either house?  Perhaps there was a military bomb disposal squad at work, and it looked likely that a policeman could also be there.  Whilst pondering the situation, I was pleased to see some khaki clad army personnel and an officer, come out of the alleyway, board the lorry, and drive off.  Good I thought, that only leaves me to worry about the policeman.  I was still keeping the premises under observation when about half an hour later the PC emerged from the alley, mounted his constabulary bicycle, and to my delight cycled away. 

I then left our house, went across to the other side of the street, and furtively creeping up the alleyway looked carefully to see if there was any signs of occupancy at Nos.6 and 8. Not surprisingly, there was no sign of any of the inhabitants at either of the houses.  So far so good, I could now risk venturing into either of the back gardens of the properties. Success, for looking at the back of No. 8 from the rear gateway, in the angle formed by the kitchen and dining room walls, there underneath the dining room window, a hole had been dug, and looking into the hole exposing the foundations of the building, there at the bottom was a large bomb.

Looking at the bomb, and feeling very frightened, I nevertheless had an irresistible urge to try and find out whether or not it was a time bomb? Climbing into the hole, I knelt down on the damp soil and contemplated the bomb.  Perhaps I could get some part of it off as a sort of souvenir?  No, but whilst the bomb itself had a smooth steel surface, and no removable parts, it looked as if it might just be possible to take the tail fin off.  If then I could remove the tail fin it would make a marvellous exhibit to stand say, in a hearth? However, the first thing to do was to establish whether or not it was a time bomb.

Standing in the hole, I realised that to listen for any time clock ticking, I would have to press my ear against its casing.  Lying down as best I could then pressed my ear against its cold steel casing.  Good, it was not ticking, but I had read in newspaper reports about time bombs in which anti handling devices could be present, such as a trembler switch or magnetic detonator intended to hinder interference and removal of unexploded bombs.  With these thoughts in mind I had no trouble in persuading myself that, on this occasion, I should not seek to interfere further with the bomb, and leave the premises.

Unfortunately, however, I had left my decision too late, for a as I was still kneeling down in the hole contemplating the bomb, it seemed as if a dark cloud had blocked out the light and on looking up, to my consternation, there was a large policeman looking down at me.

The PC had returned.  The minimum height requirement for the Norfolk Constabulary in those days was 6’ this height when coupled with a helmet and heels then made for a PC getting on for 8’ tall.  His arrival now meant that I had more things than just the bomb to worry about.  For grandfather, with whom I lived, was himself a special constable and would undoubtedly be embarrassed to learn when reporting for duty at the Police station of his grandson’s latest escapade.

The PC was not best pleased to see me and demanded an explanation as to why I was there.  I could give none and, at his “request” left the premises.

Well what finally happened to the bomb?  I do not know, certainly it had not exploded, and as I was now prevented from returning to the bomb.  I think that later it must have been defused on the spot by the bomb disposal unit and removed.  Was the bomb then German, or was it in fact from an English or American aircraft, and intended for safety reasons to have been dropped in the Wash as was not unusual in those days. I wonder, perhaps we will never know?