大象传媒

The waves were breaking along the groynes of the Eastbourne beach on that cold but sunny spring afternoon as I sat with my brother slightly aside from the other children. I was upset and felt that the others in the group, who were older than myself, would all laugh at my inability to tie shoelaces. Now it is obvious that they were far too occupied with their own grief and fears to entertain any thought of what I might have been doing.

Tony who would soon be six, was a big boy in my eyes, I was not even five so it was to him I turned for help with my flapping shoelaces. Even today the memory of not being able to follow the simple trick of tying bows, so easy and natural for him, seems humiliating. After much trying I gave up and let my big brother complete the operation.

The group was called together again. Three ladies wearing volunteer bands on their arms were directed by a fourth who wore a green uniform, complete with hat, who by her appearance and manner impressed me as being a person of supreme authority.

"Hold hands in pairs," was the order. "Get in line, stay close together and ... quick march!"
The line of sixty or eighty children, each carrying a gas mask and a satchel type canvas bag, were clearly labelled with a cardboard luggage tag attached to each child's lapel. We slowly began to move along the deserted streets in crocodile file. It was 1940, the phoney war as it was called; Germany had invaded Poland and the threat of blitz on London had arrived and the evacuation of children commenced.

There is no memory in my head of times prior to sitting on that Eastbourne beach. No recollection of the train journey, no recollection of my home, my family, our house, my bedroom or most important no memory of my mother. It can only be imagined.

My thoughts now are of the heartbreak, which affected hundreds of parents and children that were of an age to understand what was happening. Huge crowds had gathered at the London station and were pushing and shoving to get a last glance of their children as they were ushered by the volunteers to get into a carriage and wave goodby ... for a week ... for a month ... for a year? Many of the children were to be gone forever for there were hundreds who would never have a reunion with their families. War takes its toll on everyone.

As the corcodile weaved its way along the suburban streets of the wartime sleepy town, two of the volunteer ladies moved ahead of the file knocking at each house and asking the surprised occupants if they would house a child, a Londoner, an evacuee. Slowly the line of children grew shorter as the kindly people of Eastbourne took them into their homes.

It seems that girls were the first choice, or children aged about six or seven. Presumably they were considered easier to handle than five year olds or those over ten. I held Tony's hand and no doubt sucked my thumb constantly. We had been told to stay together and having received these precise instructions from our parents anyone would have had difficulty parting us at that stage, but two children in one house, not an easy problem when the house owners were not even anticipating being cajoled into taking evacuees.

By this time the line was very short, it was late afternoon, we were tired from the journey, hungry and probably quite frightened not understanding what was happening. Suddenly Tony and I were ushered to an open front door, there stood Mrs. Jones, a kindly looking lady of about forty-five. Her conversaiton with one of the volunteer ladies ended abruptly, she withdrew her hands from the apron front, opened her arms and took us into her heart and her home. She immediately became 'Aunty.'

The house was built on a rise and was a typical semi detached property of about ten years old. We were guided into the back sitting room where there were two easy chairs either side of an open fire place and a dining table with chairs set around. The table was covered with a large green almost velvet cloth that draped down to within inches of the floor. There I had found my 'secure place.' I immediately crawled under the table, beneath the cloth, now in my own world and feeling safe.

Poem written about this story:

The line gets shorter as we walk and children disappear.
They turn to us with moistened eyes each fighting back a tear.
"A girl for number 27, a boy for 33,
could you take two?"
"Oh sorry, no, we have a family."

I grip my borther's hand so tight, I am four and he is six.
The crocodile gets shorter now, "A girl for 36?"
Suddenly it is our turn, "I'll take the little ones."
A gentle voice is calming us, "They'll be my first grandsons."

Evacuee, evacuee a word I understand,
But meaningless when I was four, "Just hold your brother's hand."
My collar tagged, my bag addressed, my gas mask by my side,
"Now wave goodbye and be good boys," the tears they cannot hide.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.