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This story is submitted to the People's War site on behalf of my Uncle-in-Law Mr Charles Waghorn and has been added to the site with his permission. Mr Charles Waghorn understands the site's terms and conditions.

It was late spring, 1941, and the German night attacks on London were at their height. Although we lived in Hounslow, a West London suburb, the primary target had moved from the East End and the London docks. Now it was indiscriminate bombing of the civilian population.

My father, with commendable foresight, had had a small concrete air raid shelter built in the back garden - our beloved little lawn had to go. This shelter was superior to the standard issue Anderson shelter, a corrugated iron structure, but both required a covering of soil to give adequate protection. There was just enough room inside for a double bunk and a single bunk. I did my homework by the light of a hurricane lamp.

We had a nightly routine when the air raid sirens wailed - hurricane lamp, torch, thermos flask of tea, blankets for the three bunks, ration books, and a 'po'. If the all-clear sounded during the night we would return to our beds. On one very protracted and noisy night, with anti-aircraft fire and the whistle of bombs competing to keep us awake, we spent the whole night in the shelter. When we emerged the next morning we were greeted by an air raid warden with the news that an unexploded bomb had penetrated the road some twenty yards from our front door. This was one of the frequent hazards after a raid, and it meant either that the bomb was defective or that, more sinisterly, it had a timed fuse. Either way we had to get out at once until the bomb squad had dealt with it.

My parents slung a few clothes and valuables into suitcases and we moved to the public air raid shelter at the end of the road. My father went to work, I went to school (with a story to tell), and my mother stayed to monitor the situation. That night there was another heavy raid. We emerged in the morning to check our house. The unexploded bomb had turned out to be an unexploded anti-aircraft shell (a not uncommon occurrence) but the chaos that greeted us was appalling. One of the German’s more frightening weapons was the parachute mine — a large case of high explosive that drifted down soundlessly and on contact spread destruction over a wide area. One of these had landed a couple of hundred yards behind our house. It had blown in all the windows and window frames at the back of the house, blown in the back door, and the shelter door was off its hinges.

Picking slivers of glass out of blackout curtains, cushions, chairs, bedding and furniture was a long, slow task and the house was clearly uninhabitable. So it was back to the public shelter, and then the temporary hospitality of friends at the other end of town. I don’t remember for how long we were refugees, but it was certainly some months before my father managed to get builders in to repair the damage.

That unexploded anti-aircraft shell did us a good turn.

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