大象传媒

A WARTIME MEMORY

On Sunday 14 January 1945, four months before the war ended, my mother gave me half-a-crown (12.5p) to go to Barking in Essex to buy a loaf of bread. I was thirteen.
Being a Sunday all the normal shops were closed but in Barking there were Jewish shopkeepers who opened 鈥� having closed on Friday, being their Sabbath day.
I had to catch a bus and depending on which one came along first would deliver me to either Barking Station or the Library. The Library one was the first to arrive 鈥� that was near fatal 鈥� because that bus stop, unknown to me, was a few yards only from the spot where a German V2 Rocket fell a few minutes later. It fell on St.Paul鈥檚 Church at 12.12pm just as the morning service was ending. I was standing on the pavement opposite. My last conscious memory was of everything suddenly around me being transformed into the colour of undercoat paint鈥he pavement, the road, the shops, the buildings鈥verything was the colour of red oxide.

The next thing I remember was very strange but indelibly imprinted inside me.
I seemed to be hovering above myself in a hospital bed. I looked down and saw that I was dirty and dressed in a white gown. Over my forehead was a white bloodstained cloth with two fat, red sausages either side of my head. (I learned later that the 鈥榮ausages鈥� were in fact sandbags). My left leg was swathed in bandages. Around the bed, the first in a long line stood a group of serious-looking men in white coats. I recall feeling in my hovering state, warm, comfortable, pain-free and unworried.
My next remembrance was also strange - but true. I was travelling fast towards an extremely bright light and when I had gone quite a way a hand came out of the brightness and a voice said, 鈥淣ot yet. I have much for you to do.鈥� I then opened my eyes for the first time in weeks and saw that my mother and my paternal grandmother were sitting by my bed. At this point, I uttered my first words since 14 January: 鈥淚鈥檝e just seen Jesus.鈥� My grandmother described to me later how she had burst into tears and told my mother that, 鈥業 was going!鈥� But I didn鈥檛 go鈥nd from on then on I began to get better.
When I told people later about these experiences they would say they were imagined, or that the head injuries was the cause: some said I was mad. With such disbelief I stopped telling people.
My injuries were severe. Quite apart from a depressed temporal skull fracture, I suffered numerous scalp lacerations, chemical burns on my back and on both legs and a third degree burn on my left foot.
As I began to recover I was put in Bed number three. Next to me was Eileen, a girl of twelve years of age who during all the time I spent in the neurological ward never regained consciousness. She was fed through a nasal gastric tube and while this went on Eileen emitted that awful meningeal cry 鈥� a sound in time that I would grow to recognise 鈥� but of which I knew nothing at that time. I often wonder what became of her.
While in this particular Ward I also saw people dying and being carried to the mortuary. This was a nightmarish experience which at thirteen, and seemingly awake,
made me wonder if I had actually died and gone to hell.
One night, while I was asleep, the nurses moved a lot of soldiers into the Ward. Some were in beds while others lay on mattresses on the floor placed down the centre of the Ward. Some of them were crying out for their mothers鈥ooking back I now realise that they weren鈥檛 very old, eighteen or nineteen or so.
Later, when I鈥檇 recovered sufficiently from my head injuries, I was again taken to the hospital鈥檚 Operating Theatre where a skin graft taken from my leg was used to 鈥榩atch up鈥� my injured foot. What an experience that was! My leg was prepared with a skin cleaning procedure with a sterile towel placed around it. When I arrived at the theatre, Dr.Wolfe, a lady anaesthetist, began to 鈥榩ut me out鈥� by means of a big black mask and ether. At the same time a theatre nurse began to remove the towel from my leg. My whole body was tingling. I thought that the operation had begun and suddenly shot up from the table, flung off the mask and caused mayhem in the operating theatre. They told me off later 鈥� but I was simply terrified at the time and really didn鈥檛 know what was going on.
These early treatments and experiences took place at Chase farm Hospital in Middlesex where the London Hospital鈥檚 neurological unit was based during the war.
I feel indebted to the skill of Mr. Northcroft, the Neurosurgeon and Nan Jones, a Welsh nurse who was to later inspire me during my own nursing career.
While undergoing treatment she talked to me constantly, even when I was unconscious and it was her voice I responded to. She told me of her love for Sydney Petrie, a Commissioned Officer, whom she married later. She frequently showed me photos of him in army uniform and would often let me loose on the precious embroidery she was completing for her bottom drawer. It was Nurse Nan Jones that pulled me out of that dreadfully dark pit I was experiencing.
I left home on 14 January 1945 for a loaf of bread and returned there on 20 March 鈥� the longest and most memorable shopping expedition of my life 鈥� and needless to say, without a loaf!
When my mother took me home from hospital I could hardly walk and all she said was, 鈥淚f you can鈥檛 walk better than that you鈥檇 better go back into hospital.鈥� I was hurt by her seemingly unkind remarks: but she was right. During April I had to return to the London Hospital for an exploration on my foot. Although they鈥檇 managed to get my ankle to work I couldn鈥檛 bend my foot and I鈥檇 lost all feeling in some of my toes 鈥� feelings which never did return 鈥� and my damaged foot swells up even today. When I was in the London Hospital I saw many injured naval and air force chaps growing skin from their chests to their faces鈥readful things for a child to experience. There was no such thing as Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome and consequently no help from counsellors.

My recovery was long and painful at times 鈥� the effects of which I feel from time to time 鈥� especially over the damaged area of my skull. All very disabling but largely controllable with the use if modern pain killers. For a time I lost proper control of my speech and I do even now have good and bad days for speaking; days when the words come out muddled and I have to remember to keep quiet.
It all nearly got me when I was nineteen 鈥� but that鈥檚 another story.
The Nursing Sisters on the Wards at the London Hospital used to say morning and evening prayers鈥neeling on bare floorboards鈥nd it was this simple act that got me out of my problems later 鈥� I learned to pray about it all.
My mother later told me of a story she had of that day when I went to get a loaf of bread. She was expecting me to return home for my dinner at about 1.30pm.
But by 3.30, when I hadn鈥檛, she began to get really anxious. So much so, that she went to the Air Raid Wardens Post 鈥� there was one in almost every street by then. My mother told him where I鈥檇 gone and that my return was well overdue. After making a number of phone calls he discovered that a V2 had dropped in Barking.
Immediately, warning bells began ringing in my mother鈥檚 head. After hours of telephoning and waiting I was eventually traced to a hospital in Enfield 鈥� miles away from home. Being unconscious after the explosion I wasn鈥檛 able to give my name to anybody. My mother thought that I鈥檇 been blown to pieces and with four other younger children to look after it must have been quite traumatic for her.
While recording this we in England are celebrating VE Day, 8 May 1945. Fifty years on, my memories of that day are not filled with joy. Recovering slowly from the injuries to my foot prevented me going to the Street Party and I still struggled to believe that aeroplanes wouldn鈥檛 come out of the sky to finish us all off.
Despite everything I had this overwhelming sense of gratitude that we as a family had survived 鈥� including my Dad who, until his homecoming, remained in the Middle East as a Military Policeman.
All in all, I am lucky to have survived the war, having had fifty years more of life 鈥� unlike those countless millions who perished who I remember and grieve for.
So this is my story. All of it true and recalled in vivid detail almost every day.

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