大象传媒

I was four years old when war broke out and ten when it finished. My awareness of the conflict therefore grew over time. I don't remember it starting - it was just there. At school I remember carrying my gasmask and practising our air raid drills. This meant the pupils were led from the school and given shelter in a row of houses nearby. Why we did that I have no idea because we were just as much at risk in the houses as in the school.
My father, who had served in the First World War, avidly followed events, in the newspaper, on maps on the wall, and on the radio. The radio was powered by what we called a 'dry battery', which we bought at Bindom's shop in Blaenavon, and a wet battery - a lead/acid accumulator, which I (later on) carried to Williams' shop in the neighbouring village of Garndiffaith, to get charged.
My father maintained a full garden and, like several other people in the village, kept a pig. We had, therefore, despite rationing, plenty of food.
In this garden my father dug an Anderson shelter, which promptly became unusable because it filled with water. When the air raid warning sounded in the night, then, we got up from our beds and sheltered in the kitchen. Again, this was no more secure than our bedrooms. My father, though, would insist on us getting up and standing in the kitchen; he suffered badly from his nerves, largely as a result of WW1 and being wounded in the Battle of the Somme.
He'd been out for a drink one night and was returning home when he saw our neighbour's lights on. This of course, was supposed to be in a blackout. My father called to the neighbour to put his light out. The neighbour, though, had also had a drink and challenged my father, saying he'd heard that my father was good with his fists and he'd like to try to find out just how good he was. A fight did occur and the two men were only pulled apart by another neighbour and my older brother and my mother. My father had given the neighbour something of a beating. Needless to say, relations between us and the neighbour, a man named Jim Williams, were strained from then on. However, Jim was basically a nice man: he'd just had too much to drink that night.
Several weeks later, during which time the two men had not spoken to each other, Jim Williams killed a pig. It was customary when this happened to give a present of some meat to one's neighbours. We wondered what Jim would do. One night there was a knock on our door. I answered the knock. It was dark outside, not a light on anywhere, but there was Jim, holding out a large plate full of meat and with tears streaming down his cheeks. 'I've brought this around for you,' he said. My mother by now had come to the door. She, of course, invited Jim in, and the original friendships were restored.

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