- Contributed by听
- younganne
- Location of story:听
- Cirencester, Gloucestershire
- Background to story:听
- Civilian
- Article ID:听
- A5227012
- Contributed on:听
- 20 August 2005
It was the autumn of 1940. I was a 13-year-old school girl, evacuated to Cirencester from North London. The war was not going well.
Early one evening, we heard a thunderous noise overhead. Rushing out into the street, my girl friend and I were met by dozens of neighbours racing in the direction of black smoke rising from a near-by field. Their excited, triumphant shouts, 鈥淛erry down, Jerry down鈥, was all we needed to hear to chase after the crowd
We reached the crash site minutes before the local police appeared on the scene. A pungent smell filled the air. I can smell it still. Debris was scattered everywhere. My friend picked up a large leather glove. Instantly, her face turned ashen, a look of disbelief and horror on her face, as she dropped the glove. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a hand in it鈥, was all she said.
The image of that instant stays with me to this day, a vivid reminder of the absolute horror and futility of war.
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