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On September 3rd I was a nine-year-old boy on holiday with my parents in Brighton. My father was busy filling sandbags somewhere and when I came into the hotel to look for my mother I found various chambermaids crying. On asking the reason why, I was told we were at war with Germany. The air raid siren went shortly afterwards but it must have been a false alarm as the All Clear went shortly afterwards.

About a year later I was at boarding school when the Germans began to attack London. If the siren went at night we were brought down from our dormitories to the basement, where each boy had a bunk. We remained there until the All Clear went and, if it was quite a long time, the headmaster and his wife would read us a story and sometimes offer us a boiled sweet. One night it is believed that a bomber was being chased and decided to unload its bomb load. A large bomb fell quite near the main school building and a string of three smaller ones fell in a line near the cricket pavilion, shifting it slightly. The next day we were allowed to inspect the crater made by the large one, and one of my prize possessions was a small piece of the bomb case stamped with a swastika. We were given the option of staying for the rest of the term or of being evacuated. I had an aunt and uncle who lived in Cornwall so went to stay with them.

One morning I was out in the back garden when there was a loud roaring noise and a Heinkel bomber which was hedge-hopping just cleared the roof of the house before dropping down again as it flew on towards Redruth. It was flying so low that I could see the markings on the top of its wings and I could also see that the rear turret appeared to be unoccupied. This was very lucky for me, possibly, as later on it was guilty of machine-gunning some people on the ground. While staying there we could often see the sky lit up with red flames as Plymouth was being hit 70 miles away. I also heard my only whistling bomb of the war — a very frightening experience as it sounded exactly as though it was coming for you until you heard the crunch elsewhere.

Later in the war I was living in Guildford when the doodle-bugs were heading for London. You listened to them very closely because if they suddenly cut out you knew the missile was on its way towards the ground. I was on a bus on one such occasion and was thankful to hear it explode elsewhere.

By this time I was at a boarding school up in the Midlands and we would often hear the noise of heavy bombers — ours! There was a reservoir nearby and we were told later it was the Dambuster Squadron practising low flying prior to their famous raid.

As the war in Europe moved to its final months I had a large map on the wall and, with the help of coloured pins, I used to plot the front lines as the British and American armies plus our allies closed in on Germany from the West and the Russians from the East.

It was an interesting and, at times, exciting time to live through but being wartime meant there was a sting in the tail. We lost our home and possessions in Singapore when it fell to the Japanese and my father died as a prisoner of war in Changi Camp.

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