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Family memories of WorId War Two

Having been born in 1942, I have few memories of the War. However in the years following the end of the War I would often sit quietly for hours listening to family and friends telling stories of their experiences. From the many stories I heard and believe to be true I have picked a few experiences of members of my family which , I think, help me to understand the lives of people living in the London area during the Blitz.

My Grandparents lived in Streatham in South London. When the Air Raids first started there were no anti-aircraft guns and people were angry at our inability to fight back. My Grandmother was sometimes so frustrated that she ran out of the house during raids and shook her fist and screamed abuse at the German planes. Eventually an anti-aircraft gun was placed at the end of the street. My Grandmother described its terrible thumping racket as the ‘Sweetest sound she ever heard.’

In spite of what she and other members of the family went through, towards the end of the War she would stand outside her house and watch the ‘Thousand Bomber’ Allied raids on their way to Germany. She was heard to say, ‘Poor beggars, they are in for it tonight. I feel so sorry for them.’

My Uncle Les was a navigator in Bomber Command. He was home on leave and staying with my Grandmother. When the warning siren went for an air raid everyone else got out of bed and squashed into the Morrison shelter in the front room. Uncle Les refused to get out of his bed saying that he was used to being shot at and nothing would get him into that ‘rabbit hutch’. A few minutes into a dreadful raid he struggled into the shelter. ‘Shift over,’ he said, ‘I’d rather put up with the ‘Flak’ than this.’

Sadly, he was shot down and killed during one of the many raids made on the battleship, Tirpitz. He was sorely missed.

My Grandfather was a printer. He worked for the Civil Service. His job was to set Hansard, the record of parliamentary debate. He had to work all night so that it was ready for the MP’s the following day. He never left his office even during raids and sometimes there was nothing between him and oblivion but a glass skylight.

When the time came to go home he was so desperate to see that his family were still alive that he often walked through the raids. He was not alone in doing this. One night he heard an almighty bang nearby. He put his head down and plodded on. When he looked up he though his end had come. Slowly spinning towards him was a cylindrical object. He assumed it was a parachute mine. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his end. Nothing happened. He looked up and there was a battered dustbin lying in the road.

He describes how one night he went out with the other men onto the roof for a break and to watch the fires. After a while they smelled cigar smoke. A familiar voice came out of the darkness. ‘All right, boys? Bad night tonight.’ Churchill had been in the building and had also come up to watch London burning. It was one of my Grandfather’s proudest moments and he never tired of telling us about the night he met ‘Winnie’. And I never tired of listening.

My father, being in a reserved occupation, joined the Home Guard. When he eventually got a rifle he kept it and its ammunition in the wardrobe in the bedroom when he was at work.

We lived right on the edge of the South Downs in Sutton. Everyone was convinced that when the German paratroops arrived they would land on the Downs and march on London. When my mother and her friend and neighbour, Mrs Fox, were once asked what they would do if German paratroopers walked down our road they gave a simple answer. ‘Fetch our husband’s guns and shoot as many as we can.’ They are not getting near our children.’ Did they really mean it? Oh, yes - be assured, they meant it!

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