Cows, Bulls and Bicycles on a WWII farm

The miracle of resuscitating a calf after a difficult birth, dealing with both gentle and rampaging bulls and getting your own first bicycle as a boy on the farm in in WWII.

Shorthorn Bull by David Merrett, https://www.flickr.com/photos/davehamster/3716702740/, Attribution  2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0) 

The first time I was needed to help with a farm animal, was during a difficult calving. The cow was lying down, and every time dad got the calf’s feet out, and put his hand in to turn the head, the calf slipped back in. My job, after he had tied a cord on the feet, was to keep pulling whilst he manipulated the calf. It was 10.00 pm when the calf finally slid to the floor, and I saw, what I only realised later, was state of the art resuscitation. He held open the comatose calf’s mouth, and pressing his own into it blew hard, alternately squeezing its ribs. After what seemed an age the calf gurgled and started breathing, and not until it was up and suckling did we go home, mother angry that I had been kept out till after midnight. I still believe that was the most incredible late night I have ever had!

The recalcitrant bull, was a different story and for me at the time quite traumatic. It was potato harvesting time, and as usual I had been kept from school to help. A gang of some 20 soldiers were picking them up, but on this particular day the weather had turned to drizzle, and they had been told they could have an early lunch, and to take it into the farmyard. The buildings – probably mid-19th century – consisted of a cow shed, dairy, six loose boxes, three open-fronted sheds, stable for eight horses, chaff house – with granary above – and a large weather-boarded threshing barn, once thatched, but now with a corrugated iron roof, all set round a square forming four cattle yards. The farmhouse was placed well back from the side that had a section of wall, with a five barred gate set in it – the main thoroughfare for cattle entry to yards, stables and cowshed. 

My father, his brother Cecil, a Land Girl, another permanent man, and myself had stayed behind to put the last sacks of potatoes on the trailer and haul them off the field, and as I drove the load into the dingy thrashing barn with my father clinging behind, a small door was flung open on the far side, and my uncle dashed in yelling, ‘Bill! Bill! The b***** bull’s out.’ I stopped the tractor, but before following on, cast around for a suitable stick, and spying a broken pitchfork handle on a ledge, snatched it up, and rushed through, to be confronted with a scene to be forever burnt into my memory.

In the open – and empty – sheds there was over a metre thickness of dry dung – so most of the soldiers had been sitting in the mangers on the bit of straw still in them, with their feet up, as if in easy chairs! Unfortunately, this meant they were at a very good ‘skittling’ height for a rampaging bull, so most of them were now clinging to every available rafter, with kit bags, gas masks and greatcoats scattered all around. In the centre was one very angry bull, with the door frame of his loose-box around his shoulders, kept in place by his near two metre – tip to tip – horns: my uncle and the other labourer were as terrified as the soldiers, and were begging my father to go and get his gun.

I was immediately called over to where the bull stood glowering at my father. I rushed forward waving my stick. ‘Use your voice boy. Use your voice,’ he barked,

Hear the full story on the podcast at:

https://archive.org/download/cows-bulls-and-bicycles/Ch2e-Cows-Bulls-and-Bicycles.mp3