It was five-past eight on a murky, dark morning on the 16th December 1914 and Scarborough’s fog-horn on the lighthouse top was booming eerily across the town – ‘F-o-r-g! F-o-r-g!’ My father, Billy Fox, was eleven at the time, and as usual at this time of day he was doing up his boots before doing his morning chore of running across the fields below his home in Trafalgar Road to feed the pigs on his Dad’s allotment on the North Side. Granny Fox clutched her chest and exclaimed – “Thunder!” But then the bang was followed by a rapid round of ‘booms’. The penny dropped – this was not thunder this was gunfire!