Dundas Bullets
by Derek Freeman
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: How I stole live bullets from Auntie Jessie's house, what we did with them and how one of the bullets nearly killed someone.
_____________________________________________________________________
She was a small dumpy woman we called Auntie Jessie, but she was our mother’s aunt, not ours. She was married to Bob Sands, a dour old bugger who worked for Lady Stewart Clarke on Dundas Estate. They lived in a tied house on the edge of the estate with no mains electricity, a coal fire for heat and paraffin lamps for light. They truly lived in the dark ages.
The huge garden was immaculate, vegetables of all types were grown. This together with two to three dozen hens served them well with eggs and meat.
A week before Christmas my father paid his first of two visits to Dundas and with the assistance of Bob Sands we were assured of a Christmas tree.
He returned the following week to choose a hen for Christmas dinner. It was beheaded, plucked and cleaned on the kitchen table. This was one of the most disgusting smells I have ever experienced.
Uncle Bob, as he was known, was also the owner of a gun, but whether he ever had a firearms certificate remains unknown. The rifle was hidden in a canvas bag under his bed.
As I grew a little older I became more curious about the rifle and when ‘Auntie Jessie’ was busy in the garden, I decided to have a closer look. The rifle was in two pieces; I had no idea of how to put it together, but there was more to interest me than just the firearm, there were also boxes of ammunition; they were only small, but they were bullets.
There were two to three boxes of ammunition and as a young curious boy it was only natural that I would put a few in my pocket to show off to my friends.
It looked as if the rifle had not been used for years and a handful of bullets wouldn’t be missed. Later that day we would build a fire and throw some of the bullets into it.
I had read on the box that they were dangerous for over one mile, but with a corrugated metal fence to one side and thickly wooded areas on the other three we decided it would be safe enough; the trees would stop the bullets going too far.
Two or three bullets were thrown into the now blazing fire and we quickly ran for cover behind the nearest trees. Counting the bangs as the powder in each bullet ignited, we were shaking and laughing with excitement.
More were thrown into the fire; occasionally we heard a thud as a bullet embedded itself in a nearby tree. Now and again a bullet would hit the metal fence and ricochet dangerously close, but most of the bullets had peppered the adjacent trees. We thought we were invincible and could do exactly as we pleased; this would be proved in the next few weeks. Even with the noise of exploding bullets ringing in our ears no one came to investigate.
‘Get some more,’ came the cry. ‘We’ll do it again tomorrow.’
After school the following day Dundas was my first stop. Following a fifteen minute walk I swung open the stiff wrought iron gate that led to the back of the house. This was the normal way in as the front faced the drive way to Dundas Castle and a scruffy child couldn’t be seen by any of the toffs as they passed.
I knocked at the heavy green wooden door. A few seconds later it swung open. ‘Hello son, come in, come in,’ she said. ‘I’m fair pleased to see you, does your mother know where you are?’ ‘I told her that I might come up to see you,’ I replied. ‘Sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ Out came the compulsory half dozen French Fancies; a small sponge cake covered in cream and a sticky icing which we were offered on each visit. As my unsuspecting ‘Aunt Jessie’ made tea, I quickly entered the bedroom, dived under the bed and pocketed another handful of bullets.
An hour later I was on my way home and following dinner made my way to the pre-arranged meeting place in the woods at King George V playing field. I knew my friends would be waiting with the fire already burning.
Again we threw the cartridges into the fire and the peace of the woods was broken with the constant bang of exploding bullets. This was repeated many times during the following weeks until the day someone was almost killed.
Back at school I had been showing one of the bullets to a couple of friends. Eventually everyone in our age group had gathered round. It had been passed around the group when someone dropped it.
‘For fuck sake be careful,’ I said. Another voice from the crowd shouted, ‘It will have to be in a fucking gun before it goes off.’ To prove this anonymous statement I shouted, ‘Watch’ as I forcefully threw the bullet to the hard rough surface of the playground.
The resulting bang scared everyone. ‘Fucking hell, what happened?’ someone shouted. It was obvious that the bullet had fired, but had anyone been hit? We stood dazed, looking at each other for a few seconds.
Each one of us pale with fright and looking for signs of blood or injury; waiting for one of our friends to fall to the ground dead or injured. Fearing the worst and thinking about how long I would spend in prison, I called out, ‘Is everyone okay?’ Thankfully no one had been injured.
We didn’t want to push our luck any further and it was the last time live ammunition was taken from under the bed. Not that there was much left.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: How I stole live bullets from Auntie Jessie's house, what we did with them and how one of the bullets nearly killed someone.
_____________________________________________________________________
She was a small dumpy woman we called Auntie Jessie, but she was our mother’s aunt, not ours. She was married to Bob Sands, a dour old bugger who worked for Lady Stewart Clarke on Dundas Estate. They lived in a tied house on the edge of the estate with no mains electricity, a coal fire for heat and paraffin lamps for light. They truly lived in the dark ages.
The huge garden was immaculate, vegetables of all types were grown. This together with two to three dozen hens served them well with eggs and meat.
A week before Christmas my father paid his first of two visits to Dundas and with the assistance of Bob Sands we were assured of a Christmas tree.
He returned the following week to choose a hen for Christmas dinner. It was beheaded, plucked and cleaned on the kitchen table. This was one of the most disgusting smells I have ever experienced.
Uncle Bob, as he was known, was also the owner of a gun, but whether he ever had a firearms certificate remains unknown. The rifle was hidden in a canvas bag under his bed.
As I grew a little older I became more curious about the rifle and when ‘Auntie Jessie’ was busy in the garden, I decided to have a closer look. The rifle was in two pieces; I had no idea of how to put it together, but there was more to interest me than just the firearm, there were also boxes of ammunition; they were only small, but they were bullets.
There were two to three boxes of ammunition and as a young curious boy it was only natural that I would put a few in my pocket to show off to my friends.
It looked as if the rifle had not been used for years and a handful of bullets wouldn’t be missed. Later that day we would build a fire and throw some of the bullets into it.
I had read on the box that they were dangerous for over one mile, but with a corrugated metal fence to one side and thickly wooded areas on the other three we decided it would be safe enough; the trees would stop the bullets going too far.
Two or three bullets were thrown into the now blazing fire and we quickly ran for cover behind the nearest trees. Counting the bangs as the powder in each bullet ignited, we were shaking and laughing with excitement.
More were thrown into the fire; occasionally we heard a thud as a bullet embedded itself in a nearby tree. Now and again a bullet would hit the metal fence and ricochet dangerously close, but most of the bullets had peppered the adjacent trees. We thought we were invincible and could do exactly as we pleased; this would be proved in the next few weeks. Even with the noise of exploding bullets ringing in our ears no one came to investigate.
‘Get some more,’ came the cry. ‘We’ll do it again tomorrow.’
After school the following day Dundas was my first stop. Following a fifteen minute walk I swung open the stiff wrought iron gate that led to the back of the house. This was the normal way in as the front faced the drive way to Dundas Castle and a scruffy child couldn’t be seen by any of the toffs as they passed.
I knocked at the heavy green wooden door. A few seconds later it swung open. ‘Hello son, come in, come in,’ she said. ‘I’m fair pleased to see you, does your mother know where you are?’ ‘I told her that I might come up to see you,’ I replied. ‘Sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ Out came the compulsory half dozen French Fancies; a small sponge cake covered in cream and a sticky icing which we were offered on each visit. As my unsuspecting ‘Aunt Jessie’ made tea, I quickly entered the bedroom, dived under the bed and pocketed another handful of bullets.
An hour later I was on my way home and following dinner made my way to the pre-arranged meeting place in the woods at King George V playing field. I knew my friends would be waiting with the fire already burning.
Again we threw the cartridges into the fire and the peace of the woods was broken with the constant bang of exploding bullets. This was repeated many times during the following weeks until the day someone was almost killed.
Back at school I had been showing one of the bullets to a couple of friends. Eventually everyone in our age group had gathered round. It had been passed around the group when someone dropped it.
‘For fuck sake be careful,’ I said. Another voice from the crowd shouted, ‘It will have to be in a fucking gun before it goes off.’ To prove this anonymous statement I shouted, ‘Watch’ as I forcefully threw the bullet to the hard rough surface of the playground.
The resulting bang scared everyone. ‘Fucking hell, what happened?’ someone shouted. It was obvious that the bullet had fired, but had anyone been hit? We stood dazed, looking at each other for a few seconds.
Each one of us pale with fright and looking for signs of blood or injury; waiting for one of our friends to fall to the ground dead or injured. Fearing the worst and thinking about how long I would spend in prison, I called out, ‘Is everyone okay?’ Thankfully no one had been injured.
We didn’t want to push our luck any further and it was the last time live ammunition was taken from under the bed. Not that there was much left.
About the Author
Derek Freeman was born in South Queensferry (the Ferry) in the shadow of the Forth Rail Bridge. He now lives in Bo’ness. He has been inspired to write about growing up in the Ferry in the 1950’s and 1960’s. Dundas Bullets is the second story in his series of memoirs.