大象传媒

The following except is written by my father, Peter Anning, from Torquay in Devon. Dad was born in 1928 and experienced the war as a young man, just entering the world of adulthood. He has written several accounts of his experiences and impressions as he was growing up in Torquay, showing that every region of the country was affected, even if the physical impact on the environs was not as dramatic as some of the other areas of the UK.

3rd September 1939: 鈥淭he day war broke out鈥� as Robb Wilton used to say. I was doing my usual walk to see the Aunties Ethel and Eva in Upton and as I passed Daison Cottages in Lymington Road, I could hear a radio booming out from one of the cottages with the voice of Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, announcing that the country was now at war with Germany

I was about to start a new school that week, having passed my 11 plus exam to begin at the Torquay Boys Grammar school in Barton Road; my elder brother John already being a pupil there.

I don鈥檛 think anyone could have imagined what the war would mean to us in our secluded, non-industrialised corner of the country. Rumours emerged daily and, of course, rumours grow with each telling; especially with lads of my age group. It wasn鈥檛 long before we were issued with gas masks because of the threat, rumour or not, that this would be Hitler鈥檚 first objective 鈥� to gas us all. I remember well going to Barton School with lads of my own age to collect a mask and coming out of the school afterwards. A reporter from the 鈥漈orquay Times鈥� got two boys to don their masks, pretend to be boxing with one another whilst the rest of us gathered around them, supposedly egging them on. The photo of the incident appeared on the front page of the paper the following week with a caption that read something along the lines of: 鈥淏oys will be boys and even the issue of gas masks won鈥檛 stop them fighting.鈥�

Air raids by German aircraft on Torquay were mainly what we called 鈥渢ip and run鈥� raids, where a number of light aircraft would fly in low over the sea to avoid radar, cause as much damage as possible, and fly back again. I think the only night bombing we had was in the early hours of April 26th 1942 when a bomb was dropped on Salisbury Avenue. It was a very frightening experience and although the explosion, to me, did not seem to be particularly loud, the damage caused was considerable, ten people being killed and three seriously injured. Don Andrews鈥� house was the end of the block and I remember him saying how the family had to jump from the bedroom windows.

I saw most of the 鈥渢ip and run鈥� raids and remember most vividly the one which occurred on a Sunday in May 1943 when St Marychurch was bombed and 21 children killed, along with their three Sunday school teachers. Together with my next door neighbour, Dick (Derek) Coombe, I went up the hill at the back of Salisbury Avenue. I was 15 and Dick was due be 15 on June 12th. We sat on the grass under the pine trees talking. After about an hour, we heard machine gun fire and the sound of bombs exploding and then the sound of the siren going. Like idiots, we ran towards the sound and were in time to see one German plane hit the spire of the Catholic church and then burst into flames. It was then we realised we had to get away from there as quickly as possible! The planes were breaking off and flying in all different directions. We ran like mad to where we had been behind the pine trees and fell flat on the ground, holding hands and shaking like leaves. We looked to our left and saw one of the planes; it was so low that we could see the pilot! The plane turned off towards Barton and dropped a bomb there. The 鈥渁ll clear鈥� sounded shortly afterwards and we went to our homes to see everyone was alright. Dad, who was a Lance Corporal in the Home Guard and a despatch rider on his Francis Barnett two-stroke motorcycle, said 鈥淚 wish I鈥檇 had some bullets for my sten gun; I鈥檇 have shot that plane down.鈥�

Finding everyone fine, Dick and I retraced our steps back to the hill, then went across the fields and down into Teignmouth Road. On the way, we found a casing of a machine gun bullet or canon shell. We walked up the Teignmouth Road and saw people being carried out of a house in Coombe Lane; they were bleeding and covered in dust. Going further, we found the road was roped off, with lots of special police around. This was where the plane, which I鈥檇 seen burst into flames, had come down. A green liquid was running down the gutter; bits of plane were strewn everywhere and some of the policemen were putting, what I assumed to be, pieces of the pilot into a sack.

Sarah Anning concludes: I loved reading Dad鈥檚 diary of memories about such formative years in his home town. Even though the incidents of attack and damage were less frequent than some other regions of the country, the horror and upset to daily lives is still very palpable. Further stories as Peter Anning began a 40-year career in the Post Office are also available.

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