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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Matthew Smaldon on behalf of Frances Birch and has been added to the site with her permission. Mrs Birch fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

'I was 13 when the war broke out. I was living in 47 Welsford Avenue in Stoke. We were all sat by the radio, on Sunday 3rd September 1939, when it was announced ‘The prime minister will be speaking at 3 o’clock’ and war was declared between Britain and Germany.

And then, it all went quiet. War was declared, and we all thought that was it, but nothing much happened. I mean, rationing came in, and we had to collect gas masks and carry them everywhere with us. But for a little while, everything just carried on as normal. We all had to have Anderson shelters in the garden. Well, we only had a little garden, and I remember my Dad digging it in, and putting sandbags all around it, and that was it — we were all prepared. Before we had the Anderson shelter, I remember worrying about getting in trouble for not doing my homework, when we were hiding in the gas cupboard during the alert. After a while we used to sleep in our clothes, as you’d be getting up, and going down to the shelter all the time.

I remember that I used to put sugar in my tea, but when it was rationed I was told ‘You can put it in your tea, but there will be no puddings’. After that I didn’t put sugar in my tea any more!

I was at Devonport High School for Girls, and we used to get Wednesday afternoon off, but we had to go in on Saturday mornings. One Saturday, we were all playing netball, and we heard this plane came over. We were called ‘Girls, girls, come on!’ and we all had to go into the concrete bike shed to shelter. We were all sat there, saying to each other ‘What’s going on?’ And we thought ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about’, you know, when ‘Bang!’ ‘What was that? What was that?’
Well, we didn’t know what had happened, and we were all sent home. Then it was given out a bomb had been dropped on Swilly, near the cemetery, and a woman had been killed. Whether there was more than one person, I don’t know. Apparently, she had heard the warning, and went into the shelter, when she decided she needed to go back into the house for something. Then bang, down came the bomb.

Devonport High School for Girls was badly damaged by a landmine that dropped in the grounds, and we had to have our lessons in the cricket pavilion, which was opposite the school. We used to share this new ‘class room’ with another school, Stoke Damerel I think, — they had one half of the day, we had the other half.

The King and Queen came to Plymouth on the 20th March 1941. It was lovely afternoon that day, very good weather. After they left, that was it — the big blitz started. That night, it was hell on earth. We heard the planes going over us - the engines had a distinctive sound, so you tell it wasn’t ours flying over. We were hiding in our little shelter. You could look out and see the flames of Plymouth. The whole of the city was on fire. Luckily, we weren’t too badly affected by this raid, but then in April, the Germans decided to come to Devonport. We lived just off St Levan Road, by the gasometers, the viaduct, and the Dockyard — and that is what they were aiming for. We all went down into the shelter, and bombs dropped on Craigmore Avenue, the next road to us. About six houses went down, a direct hit from what they called a stick of bombs, and you could hear them coming, as they used to whistle. You’d just be sat there, thinking ‘I wonder if they are going to…’ then ‘Bang’. All the dust from all the houses came into the house, and my father was stood outside, watching with people from next door. He was a firewatcher, and each street had a stirrup pump in case there was a fire. That was the worst blitz we had. After this it petered off a bit. There was an unexploded bomb found near our house, so we were all told we had to move, so we had to go to my Gran’s while that was sorted out.

Lorries, from Westlakes and all those firms, would take you out onto the Moors if you wanted to. My Mum and I did it once. We went to Horrabridge, where we slept in the church, then back the next day. After that we decided to stay in Plymouth.

At school, I was now 15, we used to take the London University examinations. It was decided that those in the top class could be evacuated, and take our exams away from Plymouth. Our school was evacuated to Tiverton. I didn’t have much to take — gas mask, school uniform, not much else. We were sat in the Market Hall in Tiverton, waiting to be billeted, and my friend Joyce Storey from Browning Road and I were waiting and waiting, as everyone else had gone. Eventually we went with these people who were a bit lah-di-dah. It was a big house, but they didn’t really want us there. We were there for a while, and we didn’t like it much. We went to the school in Tiverton and we took our exam there. Then we stayed with a dear old soul in a hotel. We were in her attic, but she couldn’t put us up for long. We were shifted again, to a house owned by the Fox-Strangways. Florence was their servant, and she was really down to earth. You went through these big gates to get to their house, and there were summer houses in the grounds and all sorts — we liked it there. But then we were moved again, as I think one of the family died, and we ended up on a farm. It was called Warnicombe Farm, and the family were called Webber. I became great friends with their daughter Greta, and we kept in touch with them for years afterwards. I went back to visit them after I got married. We were there over Christmas, and my mum was able to come up and see me. We were happy there. I passed my exam too, and I was delighted when I got a lovely certificate from the University of London. This was all within a few months, and the struggle was trying to do your revision, jumping from one place to another.

I came back to Plymouth in 1942, and luckily our house was still standing. We had to tape across the windows, as they were cracked. I got a job then at the Post Office. I was a telegraphist and TSC — to do with sorting the post. When I was there I was asked if I wanted to do counter work, so I went to Taunton for six weeks for training.

By this time, my Dad was called up. He was a cook in the Navy, and was stationed in Liverpool. He phoned one day, as he’d heard a bomb had landed in Plymouth, but we were alright. Plymouth wasn’t getting it so bad by now.

I don’t remember seeing any prisoner of war camps, or anything like that. My future husband’s cousin was a Land Army girl, and she married a German prisoner of war. I went to their wedding, in the late 1940s.'

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