大象传媒

An Average Family at War

I don鈥檛 know if I am any different to people of a similar age to me but my childhood memories seem to begin at an earlier age than the experts say is possible. Perhaps it was the momentous events that were taking place around us.

One of my earliest memories of the war is watching a long convoy of military vehicles moving from a vehicle park in the Whitehawk area of Brighton. The vehicles belonged to the Canadian army, which was heavily represented in the area. Where the vehicles were off to I do not know but do remember waving to the soldiers. At this time I could not have been much older than three years.

Another early memory that I have is being involved in a 鈥渉it and run鈥� incident while out for a walk with my mother. These incidents were where lone or aircraft acting in small numbers swept very low over the English channel to bomb or machine gun the south coast towns. At the time of this particular incident we were walking along the coast road near to what is now Roedean girls school.

An anti-aircraft gun was sited opposite a pitch and putt golf course, which was not in use at the time but is still there now. As we approached the area the gun started to fire at an aircraft coming in from the sea. Obviously this caused my mother much concern and she picked me up and ran to some coastguard cottages that used to stand slightly back from the road. She banged on the door of one of the cottages and when it was opened she rushed in only introducing herself once we were safe.

In 1943 we lost our home in a similar raid when German fighter bombers attempted to bomb a prominent block of flats that the navy had taken over. The block was called Marine Gate and still stands on the cliffs overlooking Brighton marina. Luckily my mother and I were away visiting relatives at the time, arriving home about one hour after the raid, and my father had just left for work. The raid left us homeless and without most of our possessions. We were taken in by friends until we were offered temporary accommodation.

The temporary accommodation we were offered was in the village of Ovingdean. The local farmer Percy Filkins, who my father worked for offered us a farm cottage where we lived for about six months. The cottage was very near to what is now a special school for the deaf, but during the war had been taken over by the Canadian Army.

Hearing that we had been 鈥渂ombed out鈥� the Canadian soldiers were very kind to us, me in particular. Some of them obviously had young children at home so semi adopted me as a stand in. I was given rides in an assortment of military vehicles and was often taken to their cook-house for Doughnuts.

A sequal to the loss of our home concerned my older brother who by this time was serving with the RAF as an aircraft electrician on a bomber station near Pocklington in Yorkshire. The authorities in Brighton made contact with the station welfare staff who informed my brother that his family were missing in a raid. As we had been taken in by friends no-one had informed the authorities of our whereabouts. The RAF immediately gave my brother compassionate leave and he was rushed to York station for his journey home.
On arrival in Brighton very late in the evening he proceeded to the area that we lived in. He was confronted by a cordon across the road manned by a special policeman. The officer stopped my brother from going any farther but on being told of the circumstances he took my brother to a notice that was pinned to the door of a local school, St Marks. The notice contained information regarding the residents of the area and against our names was the word 鈥渕issing鈥�. Obviously in the state of shock and worry my brother made his way to some elderly relatives living nearby who took him in for the night. It was the next morning that he received news of us and that we were safe and a happy reunion followed.

Another very vivid memory I have is being awoken one night by my father, who carried me in his arms out into the garden. He said to me 鈥測ou must remember this鈥� for the night was filled with the sound of aircraft. The noise was extremely loud and went on and on long after I had been taken back to my bed. The time was the early hours of June the sixth 1944.

Like many other families we had our share of heartache, the husband of a cousin killed in Sicily and a close friend of the family who as a rear gunner was killed over Germany. I remember both of these men as they always made a great fuss of me. I have the last poignant letter from the airman, (Ken Occlee, who lived in Rugby Place in Brighton) to my brother saying how much he was looking forward to their leaves which were going to shortly coincide and that they were going to meet and play snooker. He was just 19 at the time of his death. I was very pleased but moved to visit his grave at the Reichwold war cemetery near Cleve in Holland in 2000.

I have many more memories that space does not allow to be written, seeing and hearing Doodlebugs flying towards London, sleeping in a Morrison shelter located in our sitting room, VE and VJ days with the street parties, starting school at Easter 1945, being given drinking Chocolate by the American forces, waiting with excited anticipation for the streetlights to come on and trying to talk to some very nice men that made a fuss of us as we made our way from school. No one told us and it didn鈥檛 seem to matter that they were German prisoners of war, they were missing their children and had families too.

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