大象传媒

I was born in 1931, and was 8 years old when war was declared. We lived in Old Trafford, and because we were considered "at risk", I was evacuated to Macclesfield in August.

On our first night in Macclesfield, the authorities couldn't find places for all of us children - and as a result, 6 kids had to share a double bed that night! Unfortunately, although I had been placed with a family I didn't really settle in, and it was decided to move me to a vicar's house. I was happier here, and I remember that winter was the first time I had seen snow!!

By August 1940, with nothing too traumatic happening in Old Trafford at the time, it was decided we should be sent home. That Christmas time, my brother came home on leave from the TA - he'd been serving with the Marines, and this was his first visit home in a long time. It was nice for all the family to get together again, although our peace was shattered by an air raid beginning at 6.20pm. Dad decided we should retreat to the shelter, instead of ignoring the threat as usual.

Someone must have been watching over us, as when we came out of the shelter at 5am we found a scene of utter devastation. A huge bomb had flattened a massive section of the street, with debris everywhere. In one home, an incendiary device had fallen down a chimney where a cat had given birth to kittens in the hearth. Of course, both cat and kittens were killed, yet more innocent casualties of German bombs.

But the biggest shock was in my room. There was barely a window left in our house - although it was still standing, which was something to be thankful of - and in my room, my bed - the place I would have been sleeping - was full of thick shards of glass from the windows, embedded in the mattress. I would surely have been killed if I had been in bed that night. After this incident, I was sent off to Urmston to live with my grandfather.

I wasn't the only lucky one in my family, though. My brother Raymond worked as part of a bomb disposal squad, a brave team who defused more than 30 bombs. During one fairly routine job, one of the officers sent Raymond to make some tea, and whilst he was away something went wrong; the fuse on this bomb was a new type, which the team had not encountered before, and something triggered the bomb. All of the men were killed - as Raymond would have been, if it wasn't for making the tea.

After this, Raymond was moved and worked as a despatch rider. Shortly after starting this job, he was blown off his bike by a bomb in Whitehall, and although luckily he wasn't injured too much they must have thought his luck was running out - as they posted him to the Orkneys!

My other brother wasn't as lucky as us. He served with Churchill's son in Yugoslavia, and caught pneumonia. After this, he boarded a cruiser in Holland, headed for the Bay of Biscay. The cruiser was hit by a bomb, and my brother suffered a broken arm, so was sent to Folkestone to recuperate.

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