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September 3rd 1939

I was a young boy, not quite seven years old, but I remember it well.

I lived in Beard Street which was part of the Old Hanky Park in Pendleton, Salford.

This particular Sunday morning Sept 3rd I wasn’t feeling very well. My mother arranged for my father to take me on a tram down into Broughton, to see a lady doctor (yes, in those days they had such a thing as a Sunday doctor — who I think charged 6d a visit)

On boarding the tram for our return journey home, the conductor turned to my father and said, ‘it’s been on the wireless — Britain has declared war on Germany’.

As the early months of war ticked away, rationing, ID cards, gas masks, air raid wardens, the Auxiliary fire service, the Black out and many more war time regulations were introduced.

To a seven year old boy it became a way of life — part of the growing up process.

Direct involvement in the war was only what appeared in the press or on the wireless. There were spasmodic air raids over the area.

The day war really began for Salford and Manchester, was the evening of the 22nd December 1940 at approx 6.40pm.

The night all hell was let loose. It was the beginning of two consecutive nights of bombing, which continued until about 4.00am on both nights.

Many, many people were killed or injured during this two night onslaught, including ten or eleven nurses and doctors at Salford Royal Hospital.

As for myself and family, the 22nd Dec would become the most memorable and traumatic of our lives.

By seven o’ clock of that evening, my parents decided to leave our two up and two down terraced house in Hanky Park, and make for my grandparents’ flat at Sutton Estate, which was situated at the beginning of Eccles Old Road, a good third of a mile away (I suppose the thought was safety in numbers)

We made it to Broad Street in safety (Remember we were on foot)

Looking in all directions, it seemed as if all of Salford and Manchester was ablaze. We reached Pendleton Church or St Thomas to give it its official name.

Suddenly, a bright flare lit up the whole of Broad Street.

Instead of continuing our journey, my mother turned to my father and said ‘let’s shelter in this pub’. The pub was the Thatched House — almost facing the church — the pub was open would you believe. As we entered there was an almighty explosion. We all fell to the floor, with the pub door falling on top of my parents, my brother and myself, for the record I wet myself. (One bomb destroyed the tram office facing the Thatched House, indoing so killed an air raid warden, who was stood on the other side of the door that fell on us.

Another bomb fell in the Corporation yard which was on the other side of the Pub, and a third bomb fell in the Ellor Street area.

We later made it to my grandparents’ with the help of two soldiers.

It certainly was a night to remember — what wonderful presence of mind it was on behalf of my mother — she certainly saved the lives of our family.

The rest of the war trundled on until its final conclusion in 1945.

My memory is still focused on that night of the 22nd December 1940.

Eleven years later, I was serving with the armed forces, patrolling the borders of Communist China.

I never told my comrades that I had already been under fire as a seven year old in World War II.

That memorable night, my mother saved our lives and I wet myself with fright.

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