大象传媒

GRANDAD鈥橲 WAR

By

Charles Warren Tyrrell

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 3
INTRODUCTION 3
FOREWORD 4
CHAPTER ONE 鈥� GRANNY鈥橲 DOORSTEP 5
CHAPTER TWO 鈥� THE RIDGE 7
CHAPTER THREE 鈥� GAS MASKS 9
CHAPTER FOUR 鈥� WE SEE OUR FIRST JERRY 11
CHAPTER FIVE 鈥� THE BLACKOUT 13
CHAPTER SIX 鈥� OUR FIRST AIR RAID 15
CHAPTER SEVEN 鈥� THE TEN O鈥機LOCK 鈥楻ECCE鈥� 18
CHAPTER EIGHT 鈥� OUR OWN 鈥楻OYAL BOX鈥� 20
CHAPTER NINE 鈥� LIFE GOES ON. OUR OWN SHELTER ARRIVES 22
CHAPTER TEN 鈥� REFUGEES, AND A FUNNY AIR RAID 24
CHAPTER ELEVEN 鈥� CHRISTMAS 1941 26
CHAPTER TWLEVE 鈥� A DAY TO REMEMBER, A DAYLIGHT RAID ON THE PIER HEAD 28
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 鈥� THE MAY BLITZ 30
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 鈥� THE NEAR MISS 33
CHAPTER FIFTEEN 鈥� ANFIELD CEMETERY 35
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 鈥� NEW BOMBS ARRIVE BY PARACHUTE 36
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - EVACUATION 38
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - UNWANTED 39
CHAPTER NINETEEN 鈥� ORPHANED AND RECLAIMED 41
CHAPTER TWENTY 鈥� HAPPY DAYS AND HOME AGAIN 44
EPILOGUE 45

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author gratefully acknowledges the support given by members of his family, especially to his niece, Diane Ireland, who encouraged him to resurrect the project from limbo, and then proceeded to take on the duties of public relations officer and fundraiser. Also to his daughters Diane and Ruth for their assistance in the technology department, and son David for proof reading skills.

For the very clever design of the front cover, which sets the scene of the story so dramatically, the author is indebted to Mr Tom Carson.

To these and all that assisted in many small ways, the author offers his grateful thanks.

INTRODUCTION

The idea of putting pen to paper to describe the conditions and events during the Second World War was triggered by several of my grand-children quizzing me on the subject, to help them in their schoolwork.

What follows is the result of converting thoughts into deeds. I trust that my story will be at least enlightening.
C.W.T.

FOREWORD

The events I am about to describe to you are as true as memory allows. They are a narration of most of the outstanding events in my then, very young life, during the years of the Second World War, as it affected my own small world. It has of course, been necessary for me to encapsulate time, so you, the reader, will find it necessary to reverse the process so that you will be able to better experience the 鈥渞eal time鈥� events described.

I would suggest that you dwell on each event which I describe and imagine yourself in my place. All the events are true and I trust that my descriptive talents have been equal to the occasion, beginning with鈥︹��

The twin threads of 鈥淕ranny鈥� and the 鈥渢ramlines鈥�, which run through the story, are not made up. As soon as I began to play with the idea of writing, the mind pictures of Granny鈥檚 funeral came unbidden into my mind and the tale evolved from there.
My hope is that these elements will anchor the story and add a sense of homeliness and propriety to what would otherwise be a cold description of events, spread over a period of time.

Writing as I am, more than fifty years after the events, may suggest that more than a little licence has been taken to bolster the drama of the story. I can assure you that this is not so. What I have described is as I, and only I, can recall. I do have to admit to some personal surprise at the level of recall, but perhaps this is to the good, insofar as the memories are unadulterated by or through repetition. I trust I have made 鈥淕randad鈥檚 War鈥� both readable and enlightening.

C.W.T.

CHAPTER ONE 鈥� GRANNY鈥橲 DOORSTEP

I was ten years old in 1939 when my Granny died. No more would passers-by look with admiration at the erect, silver haired matriarchal figure sitting on the top step at the front door of 37 Netherfield Road South, Liverpool.

No more would the 鈥渂abbies鈥� of the family know the pleasure of being cocooned in her black woolly shawl, the corners of which had doubled on numerous occasions as a sponge to soak up infant tears. No more would we see her and her children with their own children standing or seated at her feet around these same steps, steps which easily assumed the contours of a throne, all in awe of her presence.

Granny was dead, and the time had come for her to be taken from us. By the time the ornate glass-enclosed hearse arrived, drawn by the magnificent chestnut horses, driven by a liveried coachman in shining top hat, the house had become crowded with ladies in wide-brimmed feathery hats and long black skirts. The men in freshly pressed suits and newly brushed bowler hats or dark trilbys, the profusion of sombre black relieved by the starched white of lace handkerchiefs and stiff collars.

I was able to see the niceties observed from my perch on the top step of the first flight of stairs. (As I recall, I was the only youngster in the house at this time. I can never remember why.)

The funeral director took charge and soon had the cortege ready to proceed. I was at the doorway as the first clip clop of the horses鈥� hooves announced the beginning of Granny鈥檚 final journey, accompanied by the two horse drawn coaches of her nearest and dearest. So did destiny take our Granny from us and from her doorstep ?

The manner of her going was so peaceful, with the hooves of the four horses providing more an accompaniment than an intrusion into her peace. Yet destiny was not saying a final goodbye to Granny, not just yet, for ere too many moons had waned, it would lay a heavy hand to the right and to the left of every yard of the pathway along which our Granny was now being taken.

Even her final resting-place would find no immunity from its wrath, for its agents of destruction would visit even there.

The cortege was wending its sedate way to the cemetery at Anfield. Tracing the route which had so recently echoed to the massed tramp of marching feet as they kept step with the traditional music of the celebration of the victory of the Battle of the Boyne on the recent twelfth of July.

The slender wheels of the hearse rolled gently along a road now empty, where not long before, space had been at a premium. Gone were the swathes of orange and white dresses of the girls and ladies and the uniforms of the men and boys. The royal purple cloaks had been returned to the wardrobes, and the once whirling swords were back in the armoury.

Saddest of all was the return to grim normality on the streets. From Roden Street to Zante Street, had been garlanded overall for so many weeks in red, white and blue and orange.

The sounds from the horses hooves echoed now down their canyon-like lengths, giving warning of much louder echoes to come; echoes which would exact a toll in such a currency that Granny would never have been able to comprehend. Our Granny could not know that the very tram lines which were the guide to her final resting place would serve also to navigate a course for those who would, in a short time, bring different music and colours to her streets, in a Valkyrie performance, which would seem to have no end.

CHAPTER TWO 鈥� THE RIDGE

War clouds were gathering, peace was still hoped for and prayed for, even so, lives were changing merely because of the threat of hostilities.

At ten years of age, I could do no more than listen to the conversations of adults, read the newspapers and, when the occasion offered itself, listen to the news broadcasts on the wireless.

Every day seemed to bring some new crisis and it was easy to detect the air of expectancy and excitement among the adults.

Gradually, men and women who hadn鈥檛 had jobs for years found themselves in demand. The debating societies inside and outside the numerous pubs found that they had topics enough to overflow their agendas.

Which service to join? 鈥淲ill I go abroad?鈥� 鈥淲hat was it like in the last war uncle Billy?鈥� and 鈥渦ncle Billy鈥� would regale his listeners with horror stories of trench warfare, not being able to know that the front line of the future was where he was standing at that moment, or that a great majority of those who would be 鈥渃alled up鈥� had less chance of hearing a shot fired in anger than the families they would leave behind.

Excitement or not, faces still had to be washed and ears inspected in case you had forgotten that they were part of your face. Off to school we would go, along by the sweet shop at the corner of 鈥淢ary Ann鈥檚 Brew鈥� (Netherfield Place to you!), where we would stand and breathe in the lip-smacking aroma of home made boiled sweets, toffee and mint rock, before attempting the steep haul up to 鈥淓verton Terrace鈥�, where our school was, perched on the very lip of the Everton Ridge.

The half mile length of the Everton Ridge was, just that. The land from the east rolled gently up to it, but ceased abruptly to form what was, in reality, a sheer escarpment. The Everton Ridge forms the highest point in Liverpool and was dominated by three features.

To the west where the land begins to fall away, stands St George鈥檚 church with its unrivalled views over the Mersey estuary, and the whole of the so-called 鈥淣orth End鈥� of the city and encompassing Bootle and Seaforth. No more than two hundred yards eastwards from the church was our school, itself with magnificent views over the Wirral Peninsula and from where the mountains of North Wales could be seen with the naked eye.

The third and eastern most feature was the red brick monolith of Everton Terrace Police Station and training school, whose views completed the montage west to east afforded by the height of the ridge.

We at 37 Netherfield Road always had to 鈥渓ook up鈥� to the police building, as we were a few yards downhill from it, but still, eye to eye with it.

You could not but be overawed by the sight of miles and miles and hundreds of square acres of densely packed streets falling away from the ridge and continuing as a sea of brick to Seaforth in the west to Dingle in the east.

All of this vast array visible to us in our eyrie on the ridge at the turn of head.

All of the aforementioned explanation and description is of course given with the aid of three dimensional eyesight. Looked at from 鈥渂omber鈥� height, especially at night, it becomes strictly one dimensional, flat. So to navigate under these conditions requires beacons or markers.

Read on鈥�..

CHAPTER THREE 鈥� GAS MASKS

Life during the early months of the war was not very much disrupted. We followed the news of what was happening on the continent with some despair and a half felt hope that the Germans would invade our island and then we would really show them.

At school, the occasional phoney air raid alert would see us scampering down to the lower playground to shelter, this was canopied by the upper playground, and made a very strong, natural shelter.

By this time, numbers attending school had begun to diminish due to a trickle of children being sent away or evacuated for safety.

Some children went just across the river to Hoylake and West Kirby, others to as far away as Canada and Australia. The trickle would soon become a flood.

Our teachers kept our school days as normal as possible, even as members of the staff were called up and classes had to be shuffled around. It helped, of course that our curriculum was so small.

It was at school that we were issued with our gas masks, for even in those not too technological days, the threat of a poison gas attack was all too real.

Everton Terrace School was also used as a gas mask distribution centre for the local population as well as for us pupils. It was very upsetting to see the mothers having to learn to put their infant into a cradle-type gas mask fitted with a viewing window and then have to keep pumping air into it via a bellows, while the baby screamed.

We of course on that first day of issue, found plenty of other ways to wear a gas mask beside the way for which it was designed! As we went home that day, we found we could wear them on the backs of our heads, and one boy even got some smiles from grown-ups by wearing one on each knee. But there was no way anyone could get my Mam to put one on.

At first, and for a long time really, most people complied with the law by taking the gas mask with them if they left their house. The cry of 鈥淒on鈥檛 forget your gas mask!鈥� became as familiar as Mrs Mopp鈥檚 鈥淐an I do yer now, sir!鈥� from Tommy Handley鈥檚 ITMA show on the wireless.

What a picture we must have made each day between 8am and 9am. Millions upon millions of us, from five year old infants through to sixth formers, labourers through to managing directors, squaddies and generals, all over the country, each carrying a little cardboard box with a gas mask in it, going to school or work or duty.

It was not too long of course before the gas mask cases were being used for lots of other things than gas masks, and blow the regulations

Plane spotting became quite a hobby for us boys. There were official posters all over the place giving the silhouette of all the German war planes but it was quite some time before the Germans condescended to allow us to put our talents to the test.

Air raid shelters were now being built in streets which could afford to be closed off, Prince Edwin Lane (the top corner of which housed 鈥淏entham鈥檚 shop, whose corner doorstep was our meeting place), was one such. Its whole length was given over to this brick-walled, concrete-roofed, steel-doored, lightless, waterless refuge from the impending threat from the skies. Wider streets like the next street, Upper Beau Street, had the shelters built to one side to allow traffic to pass.

Signs and warning posters began to proliferate 鈥淎ir Raid Shelter鈥� E.W.S. (Emergency Water Supply); A.R.P. post, where the Air Raid Wardens gathered who would organise the rescue of people trapped in their bombed homes. Police Station - 鈥楤E LIKE DAD, KEEP MUM鈥� reminding us that Fifth Columnists (German sympathisers) were everywhere. And the old faithful one from the 1914/18 war, 鈥淵OUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU鈥�, as well as the ominous 鈥淐ASUALTY CLEARING STATION鈥�.

All this activity meant increasingly exciting days for us. Now, we could run the length of the top half of the lane on the tops of the shelters, leap off, dive into the back entry, up on to the back yard walls and gallop along their nine inch width hoping the boy behind did not catch you up, then you would have to drop down, let him pass and climb up again. Great fun!

Living on a main road as we did, meant that we were well placed to watch the frequent passage of whole regiments of military vehicles moving from A to B, and even more frequently, stand in awe as columns of marching troops, fully armed soldiers, sailors or airmen were moved out to places like Aintree, where they would camp, prior to being shipped out. These events were most exciting when the regimental band was with them, then we would march along with them as far as we dared, before about-turning and marching back home.

While all these exciting things were happening to us, we could not fail to notice more and more young men and women passing along the road clutching a suitcase, usually with their Mam and Dad with them as they walked down to Lime Street Station en route to a training camp 鈥渟omewhere in England鈥�.

Yes, the days were exciting, the nights were yet to come.

CHAPTER FOUR 鈥� WE SEE OUR FIRST JERRY

Yes, our Liverpool skies were still our own, for quite some time. This, of course, was due to the distance our western coast was from mainland Germany.

The Luftwaffe鈥檚 stock of bombers was composed of twin-engined Heinkels, Junkers and Dornier aircraft which had proved so successful on the continent where their targets were usually comfortably within range of home or captured airfields. But as the German armies overran Holland, Belgium and France, so they were able to close the distance between us, as they soon showed, by large-scale bombing raids down the east coast. Even so, Liverpool still enjoyed a certain immunity because of that extra distance north and west; and this immunity was reflected in the very thin blue line of anti aircraft defences of guns, searchlights and barrage balloons allocated to defend such a huge area of high priority targets. The country of course, just did not have enough of these items at the early stage of the war, and rightly, the priority was given to areas within known range of enemy aircraft, mainly in the Southeast.

This seeming immunity bred in the population of Liverpool, a certain complacency, to the extent that, after a few phoney air raids, where the alarm had sounded but nothing had happened, very few even bothered to get out of bed and take shelter, which, in those early days, could have meant the cellar of your house if you had a cellar, or under the stairs, which many people had fitted out for just this purpose.

It was not surprising then that when the siren sounded the alarm one sunny morning, I and my pals who were a few yards from my front door propping up the estate agents鈥� window, paid not the slightest heed. There was no rush for the shelters by anyone. The trams and the small amount of traffic kept moving. No shutters went up on the shops, and there was no rush outdoors from those inside to see what was happening.

Our conversation carried on normally, until almost simultaneously, talk stopped, ears were cocked and heads turned toward an engine noise in the sky. We knew instinctively that this noise was different. We were attuned to the sound given out by British planes, but this one was singing a different tune.

The offender to our aural sensitivities soon came into view. He was so low that we did not need to move to get a better view of him. He was a twin engined bomber which our resident expert insisted was a Dornier fighter bomber which made sense, seeing that he could only be on a photo reconnaissance mission so was carrying nothing heavier than cameras. This would increase his range enormously.

The air raid warning siren, otherwise known as 鈥淢oaning Minnie鈥�, had sounded as I have said, but nobody was bothered, on the contrary, pedestrians, few as they were, were copying us and craning their necks and pointing. Those across the road, whose visibility was hampered by the twenty-foot high police station wall, even crossed the road to get a better view.

My main fear was that my Mam would drag me indoors; but I need not have worried, on looking over my shoulder I saw that she too was outside looking upwards, as were our neighbours, and the local shopkeepers. All that was lacking was a round of applause, and I feel that if someone had taken the initiative in this respect, even that would have been forthcoming.

The Dornier and her crew, unknowingly making history as the first enemy plane to take aerial photographs of our tramlines and Granny鈥檚 doorstep, were now cruising along entirely unmolested, paralleling the Everton ridge. Fascinated, we watched as they flew over what probably was their prime landmark, St George鈥檚 Church. Their on board cameras were working overtime as they dipped in and out of sight and headed in the direction of Bootle and Seaforth, at the end of the longest dock complex in the world.

This well remembered invasion of our so far undisturbed privacy had a knock-on effect. In the days and weeks that followed, there appeared on our streets, above and below the top of the hill, a profusion of mobile barrage balloons, mobile searchlights and mobile anti-aircraft guns; one of which was sited across the road from Granny鈥檚 doorstep, with which we were to become much better acquainted.

This new prioritising of our defences saw the militarisation of our own Rupert Lane Park, where we children spent so many happy hours. Its playground-sized plateau commanded the Eastend of Everton Ridge from where, when conditions were favourable, the Pennine Hills could be seen clearly. Nearer to hand, the panoply of the city proper, with the world famous Pier Head skyline rising as a reredos to the river, and the vast expanse of the south end and habitations and docklands spread as a cape beneath its feet.

Our playground then was a natural place to site guns, balloons and searchlights, and it bore the scars of battle for this until long after the war ended.

I remember that we were very disappointed that no Spitfires had shown up to chase the cheeky chappie away. Not even as much as a puff ball of anti-aircraft fire had appeared to disturb the peace of Herr Dornier鈥檚 excursion above us.

Disappointed we were, but we were soon playing our favourite game of 鈥渂ootie off鈥� across the sixty-foot expanse of the main road tramlines, and wide pavement below the police station wall.

CHAPTER FIVE 鈥� THE BLACKOUT

Liverpool and Birkenhead docks were, naturally, high on the Luftwaffe鈥檚 list of priorities as targets for destruction; and we can safely assume that their operational planners were not displeased with the result of the Dornier鈥檚 spying mission, which now lay before them.

One wonders if they took any special notice of the upturned faces staring into their camera lenses as they added Netherfield Road South to the collection of frames which made up the montage now spread out before them showing the city, the spoke wheel array of main roads, the houses in their densely packed profusion, and the easily distinguishable necklace of the docks frilling the river.

Perhaps the starched white of the apron of Joe Sims, the barber caught their eye as he too neglected his work with the razor to stand and stare, with the ever present 鈥淐apstan Full Strength鈥� dangling from the corner of his mouth as usual.

Perhaps the contorted shapes of the girls dis-interestedly still doing their aerobics on the toss over bars at the top of Everton Brow caused them some momentary puzzlement. Whatever the reactions of the German officers, it is certain that our images and our land marks were sent forward to add to the growing index of information from which would be culled all that was necessary for mounting the first night time bombing raid on Netherfield Road.

Planning takes time, and military planning is no exception to this rule. So while the strategists of Luftflotte 2 in occupied Europe were deciding on how many aircraft, how many and which types of bombs to be used, from which airfields for maxiMam fuel economy, and which route to take to avoid the high level radar screen which blanketed half the North Sea, the subjects of their attention were coming to terms with something more important: food rationing.

Bacon, eggs, butter, cooking fat, sugar, milk etc, all joined the list. Some things weren鈥檛 rationed but often in short supply. Lucky for us boys and girls, sweets weren鈥檛 rationed until July 1942. Dried milk appeared on the scene for the first time, along with 鈥渞econstituted鈥� eggs. We became used to these unusual things in time, as we did with the introduction of the now famous 鈥淪pam鈥�, which is still being manufactured to this day.

Vegetables, of course, being seasonal, and mostly grown locally or within range of the farmers鈥� lorries, were never rationed. So with these and a few bones boiled together in our big black stew pot on our open fire, there was never any danger of starvation; no matter what Admiral Doenitz鈥檚 heroes did out in the Atlantic.

A beneficial offshoot of the ever-changing situation in which we found ourselves, and which was no part of the German planning, was the extra fun the youngsters derived from the blackout. It will be difficult for anyone who has not experienced it, to imagine life on the streets under blackout regulations.

Once the sun had set and when normally there would appear the warm comforting sight of un-curtained windows reflecting flickering coal fires and showing the shadow of the occupants moving about below the one gas light, there was now blackness.

Shutters, or specially made boards were fitted across the window spaces, and curtains then drawn behind them as if to keep out ravaging nocturnal insects, rather than to keep the light in. No crack or glimmer of light could be allowed to escape, or you risked a hammering on the front door accompanied by shouted exclamations to 鈥淧ut that light out!!鈥�, to put it mildly.

Most working class homes had gaslight, a few even had electric but blind man鈥檚 buff was the name of the game, as you moved about your house after dark, unless you carried a small torch or a shaded candle.

On the roads and in the streets, darkness reigned nearly supreme. The supply to the gas street lighting had been turned off at source and the bulbs removed from the high electric lights which illuminated the main roads which carried tramways. Add to this the shuttered windows on the trams, and the hooded headlights of the then, not too numerous cars and lorries that would be on the move after dark, plus the searching and probing tiny beams of light from the essential small torches carried by any of the population on the move and you had a picture that H.G. Wells would have been proud of.

The only relief to this sombre scene were the showers of blue and white sparks thrown out by the wheels of the tramcars, which even the most officious of air raid wardens or policemen could do nothing about, as the blackout intensified the luminance value of this mechanical protest to the regulations.

So it was that as the days became shorter, our games became more adventurous as we devised new reasons for chasing each other up and down the Stygian canyons which were our wartime playground once the sun had set. I have to admit that it seems beyond belief now that we used to do all the things we did, and at such speed, up and down four foot wide back entries, on the backyard walls, in and out of the absolutely pitch black air raid shelters, and getting free rides on the buffer bars of the slower moving trams. What great fun we had, and we collected numerous injuries to prove it.

Racing slow moving cars was another favourite hobby of the blackout, and after all our exertions, we would gather outside Bentham鈥檚 shop, hardly able to see each other as we continued our adventures on a verbal plane before retiring exhausted.

While we were having fun, German bomber crews were having their attention drawn to the paper magnets which were our tram lines, greatly enlarged, in the briefing room of some captured airfield on the continent.
A new moon was due to rise.

CHAPTER SIX 鈥� OUR FIRST AIR RAID

Life 鈥渙ff鈥� the streets after an evening meal, could take the form of table games such as draughts or chess, snakes and ladders or whatever. Mainly it consisted of the whole family gathered around a blazing coal fire engrossed in some book or other. There was always the triple time click click click of Mam鈥檚 steel knitting needles to comfort us as she expertly wove her wool into socks for the men of the family; her wire framed spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, she also read a book at the same time.

There was never any talk of air raids, nor was there any nervousness in anticipation of any attack. I suppose it was a case of 鈥渨e鈥檒l cross that bridge when we come to it鈥�. So at the appointed time, we were shipped off to our blacked out bedrooms. Until one night鈥︹��

I was being shaken by my dad, he had already roused my elder and younger brother. All was of course darkness, the air raid siren was howling its unmusical song as we trooped down to the front cellar.

The front cellar was a cold, stone flagged basement about twelve feet square and with a low ceiling. A four feet square window frame with six panes allowed light to enter, and it was under this window that Dad鈥檚 old work bench table stood, onto which dad placed us.

All we could see out of the window was sky. The cellar floor was six feet below ground level, so that only a portion of the upper panes were at street level.

So here we were, a boy of eight, a boy of ten and a boy of thirteen. A Mam, and Dad and a dear sister older than all her siblings and who was concerned enough for our welfare to go back upstairs and fetch warm overcoats to wrap around us, not forgetting her Mam who sat calmly on the saw horse.

As the siren ceased, we were able to hear raised voices out in the road, but could make no sense of them. We would soon.

Dad had wrapped his arms around us two young 鈥榰ns to keep us warm and this is how we were when the air began to hum. Our ears picked up the sound of aircraft engines in the distance, and it was no time at all before this was accompanied by the , muffled crack of anti aircraft guns at a distance from us. As the volume of sound increasingly pervaded our once silent cellar, we were able to detect for the first time, the peculiar pulsing deep bass beat of German bomber engines. A sound with which, unfortunately, we were destined to become all too familiar.

By looking upwards through the window, we were able to see searchlight beams probing the sky. To us this was a fascinating sight and one we were reluctant to part from, but Dad thought wisely that we would be better off away from the window.

The searchlights were also illuminating our cellar, and from the floor we could see the huge bulk of the police building opposite, silhouetted by the thousands of candle power of the search lights sighted at Rupert Lane Park, behind.

The bombers were now above us, filling every nook and cranny with their noise, and now ably assisted in this respect by the anti-aircraft gun sited just across the road. The first time it fired we all jumped out of our skins, thinking a bomb had exploded. But Dad, himself a horse artilleryman, recognised it for what it was and soon reassured us.

But that did not stop the house shaking every time it was used, about every two minutes while the planes were overhead. What a 鈥渃rack鈥�. Bombs were falling, and yes, they do whistle and whine as they fall; I can guarantee it!

We were having our first lessons this night in deciding if a bomb was coming our way or not. There is a moment of silence between when the whistle stops and the bomb explodes.

We were trapped in this cauldron of sound, sound amplified by the escarpment of the ridge and driven down onto us lower down the slope. All we could do was sit and wait, listening to the seemingly never ending procession of bombers above us.

This was a 鈥渇irst night鈥�. It was to be the first time we were to experience the anger of a foreign enemy. A first night cowering in a cellar when we should have been snug in our beds. A first time of enjoying hot, sweet tea in the early hours of a morning in an unlit, unheated cellar while we waited for the last of the bombers to pass over.

With what seemed to be so many enemy planes above us, (I distinctly remember having the idea that the bombers were circling above us with our house at the centre of their attention), it really did seem a long, long time before the noise lessened and eventually was soaked up by the silence once again; disturbed on this occasion by the shouted orders of the gun commander across the road as they hitched their gun to the limber and chased after the marauders to come within range again.

We had heard bombs falling and we heard the 鈥渃rump鈥� as they exploded; none of them near enough to cause us any personal concern. The silence was beautiful, the fresh hot tea our sister had made, a welcome furnace to our cold hands and bodies.

The bombers had gone, and in their wake the noise and vibration had gone with them. We could hear the guns firing in the distance but the 鈥渁ll clear鈥� had not sounded, so we were confined to the cellar until it did; then we all went outside to where our neighbours were now gathered. There were no casualties in our vicinity, not one bomb landed anywhere near Granny鈥檚 doorstep, but we could hear the clang of fire engine bells and the more delicate soprano of the ambulance bells in the distance.

Here we stood, people who minutes before had been in the bomb sights of an enemy, and what were we doing? Chatting away, age group to age group, as if we had just experienced nothing more exciting than the passing of the Saturday evening Foo Foo Bands. But nature will have her way, and eyelids began to droop and we were soon herded indoors and back to bed. Would we have become any more excited I wonder, had we realised that we had just been, unknowingly, fulfilling a small part of the prophecy of Nostradamus some four hundred years previously, that there would be war between two great nations, and that fire and destruction would fall from the skies which had been carried in machines made by men?

Is it possible that Nostradamus himself had a vision of our innocent tramlines; their brightly burnished surfaces reflecting the moon鈥檚 light as the bomb aimers in their machines, eyes glued to their instruments, used them as they would a road marking on a map to guide them to their destination.

Nostradamus鈥� prophecy had a great deal of time and much, much more fire and destruction to go before its eventual fulfilment. This night had been the overture to an extended work. We had been a small part of it.

CHAPTER SEVEN 鈥� THE TEN O鈥機LOCK 鈥楻ECCE鈥�

Our first priority next morning, being the inquisitive boys that we were, was to visit the streets where bombs had exploded during the air raid. By the time we were on the street, it was common knowledge that London Road, Islington, Salisbury Street, William Henry Street, Canterbury Street, to name but a few, had all taken hits. So off we trooped to inspect such scenes that had only previously been available to us at the cinema. Each of the sites told the same story. The bomb had pierced the roof and penetrated the floors until it met solid resistance when it exploded. These bombs would not have been large calibre, because each one of them was only strong enough to destroy a single house. (Would you believe that some of these 鈥渂omb sites鈥� are still visible today, in 1999. I was waiting for a bus alongside one such, only a day or two ago).

After watching the families of bombed out homes searching the rubble for treasured possessions, and workmen making the area safe, we made our way back to our home corner to discuss the situation.

We had not been there long before the air raid siren began blasting out its warning of enemy aircraft approaching; upon which we all took to our heels. No! not to the air raid shelter or home, but in the opposite direction to where our Mams could not reach us; and from where we hoped to witness the approach of fresh squadrons of enemy bombers. We were disappointed.

All that came into view was an ME 109 fighter plane which we, in our technical wisdom concluded, had been fitted with extra fuel tanks and was now about to photograph what the Germans no doubt hoped, were scenes of immense destruction. How disappointed they must have been.

It should perhaps be explained here that, being at the upper reaches of a steep hill as we were, we commanded a view of a vast area of sky, and simply by moving from our favourite corner a mere one hundred yards to the top of Everton Brow, increased our vision to not much less than that afforded to the police station and the ultimate eyrie, the bandstand in Rupert Lane Park.

The only difference this occasion afforded was to see anti-aircraft shells exploding in the sky. The guns must have been sited around the docks area, none of the puff balls of smoke came anywhere near the intruder. He went on his merry way, click click clicking as he followed in the footsteps of his more belligerent comrades of the dark hours.

We watched as long as we could and saw him disappear from sight beyond St George鈥檚 church as he dipped down into the valley beyond. All the time he was in our vision, we fully expected again, that at least one Spitfire or Hurricane would appear to remind him that he was in the wrong garden; but again, it was not to be. Ho hum, back to Bentham鈥檚.

The circle was complete, reconnaissance, attack, and reconnaissance again. The pattern had been set; and because it was now all too plain that the Germans had more of the same in store for us, parents who had not so far had their children evacuated, were persuaded to change their mind and the trickle of pupils from our school became a flood.

At Everton Terrace school, my own class was soon reduced to no more than six pupils (which would eventually reduce to four); and all the other classes were in a similar state.

Our teachers tried to carry on normally, as even their ranks were reduced by call up or transferring to evacuation areas in the country to bolster the now outnumbered rural schools鈥� staff.

Attendance at school for those of us who remained, was reduced to two mornings a week of two hours鈥� duration, which for those in my class devolved into one long chess lesson.

With all this free time available to us now, we were able to roam at will to see the extent of the damage the raiders inflicted. An unnatural spin off from our wanderings was that we were able to salvage lots of wood from the bombed premises , which we would take home on our (not very manly as yet) shoulders, where we would reduce the beams to burnable chunks. In this way we were able to help to supplement the as yet un-rationed, but becoming scarce, supplies of coal.

So life went on. We had been bombed, we had survived. Our young lives were probably much more exciting than those of any previous generation. The term 鈥渘ever a dull moment鈥� could have been devised with us in mind; and yet, can you believe that being bombed could become a bore? It can. It did. But that for us at number 37, was in the future. Our war was not going to end after one air raid. Oh no. Herr Hitler鈥檚 warriors were determined to that they would extract maximum co-operation from a neutral moon and our helpless tramlines.

CHAPTER EIGHT 鈥� OUR OWN 鈥楻OYAL BOX鈥�

Life鈥檚 lessons are often slow in the learning, but it did not take me, even at my young age, long to realise that the British 鈥渟tiff upper lip鈥� was more than a music hall joke.

Young I may have been at the time of the first bombing raid, but I was not unaware of the calm stoicism shown by my own family as we took the recommended sensible precautions for our safety, by adjourning to the cellar.

Mam and dad were equally reassuring in their calmness, and your auntie Mary was a credit to her Girl Guide craft in her concern for all of us under conditions which were never envisaged by the compilers of the Girl Guide badge manual. This attitude was not confined to our cellar of course, it was almost beautiful to witness the collective 鈥渦n-panic鈥�.

This asset, which is so difficult to portray without being patronising, came into its own when a situation was at its worst. We did, of course, have the advantage of our famous Liverpool sense of humour on our side. After that first air raid, we were granted a lull for some time, until I was awakened by voices and the siren, and the unmistakable roar of the German bomber engines over our heads. I remember being so surprised that they were there even before we were out of bed.

As we gathered in the cellar, we could not of course see the bombers, but the concentrated attack on our ears forced a vision of the sky above us being thick with aircraft flying nose to tail and wing tip to wing tip and brushing our chimney pots. Such is the power of imagination when you are sightless.

Compared to the previous occasion, it soon became obvious that there were more aircraft being used for this attack. The steady beat of the bombers鈥� engines could easily be detected as travelling from our right to our left. Were they following the same markers as before? Were they really thankful for the reflected moonlight of the tramlines giving perspective to an otherwise flat plain into which the darkness would convert the Everton Ridge?

The aircraft noise was the main noise, but not all the noise. The anti aircraft batteries around the area were jealously guarding their territory in this respect, for it seemed to me at the time, that their numbers had been increased too, while the bombs that were being dropped onto us were laughing and screaming in derision at both the guns and the aircraft engines.

So we sat through another page of history, huddled into our overcoats in our puny cellar while the might of Hitler鈥檚 Luftwaffe tried to search us out as a ferret explores the warren for the rabbit.

Some of Hitler鈥檚 ferrets were having success, though, as the more frequent and much closer explosions amply demonstrated, as much by vibrations as by noise.

So did we sit out our second participation in this deadly game of 鈥渉ide and seek鈥�, as we became more adept at gauging the proximity of the metal ferrets as they searched for us, gradually again, the noises reduced and the beautiful silence took on cathedral proportions in our tiny space.

Not waiting for the all clear, I was soon out in the road. The sky was showing the reflection of fires in all directions. Ambulance bells could be heard, as the diminishing noise of the bombers and the results of their work could be heard from the direction of Walton. I made a dash for our top floor rear bedroom window, threw up the sash and leant out on the stone sill. From here I had as good a view as from the police station, over the whole of the docks and the city and out to Bootle, where the action was now concentrated. It was like having my own Royal Box.

As my brothers and Dad joined me, the raiders had well reached their destination: the north docks, and we were able to watch explosion after explosion erupt in the area. Fires broke out by the dozen, searchlights galore were probing, and the fire engine and ambulance bells鈥� sounds were carried up to us easily on the still night air, even at that distance. The ack ack guns concentrated around the docks, supplemented by the guns of naval vessels either in the dock or on the river, and armed merchant men kept the bombers at a respectable height as they spent the few seconds it takes to release their bomb load before turning tail, making best use of the extra speed now afforded them after disgorging their heavy load.

We stayed, glued to the window, for a long time after the all clear sounded. There were fresh explosions, fires increased as others died down. Ambulances and fire engines were continually on the move, and certainly ordinary people were scrabbling for their treasured possessions; which frequently took the form of a loved one.

One aspect of the aerial battle which was especially fascinating, and deserves a special mention, was the firework-like display of the tracer shells or bullets. You have probably watched a few seconds of anti-aircraft tracer shells being used in film of the war. Imagine then, me with my body half out of a smallish window being able to watch in reality as these long long lines of fluorescent glow worms arched into the sky. A sky greyed by the moon, formed a perfect backdrop for us spectators, to watch the searchlights and the hundreds of ever repeated puff balls of white exploding ack-ack shells and the lines of tracer, weaving ballet-like between them all, as they too sought out the grey hulls of the aircraft, invisible to us as they were against the grey curtain of the sky.

Sights and sounds to behold indeed, and not to be spoken of for more than fifty years. I could almost say that we were fortunately unfortunate to be witnesses to that unique moment in time. I need not have worried, time had numerous variations on this theme up its sleeve. I just had to be patient.

The stage had been set. We were forced to follow the script.



CHAPTER NINE 鈥� LIFE GOES ON. OUR OWN SHELTER ARRIVES

By now, the war had taken over our lives almost completely. I say almost, because we always had our escape routes via our library books, top of the list for the 鈥渕en鈥� of the family the adventures of 鈥淢cClusky鈥�, 鈥淭he Saint鈥�, or 鈥淏ulldog Drummond鈥�.

We looked-forward to Saturday matinee at one of our local cinemas (admission one penny), this also helped. But the war was always only outside the front door. This was one of the penalties for living on a main road.

As we moved deeper into the war years, the term 鈥渨atching the world go by鈥� became a reality. During the early days, we were treated to the sight of mass movements of our own services personnel being marched from A to B for some militaristic reason. How proud we were to be able to sit at Granny鈥檚 doorstep and watch whole regiments of troops march past. We were proud of all of them, but there was always a spontaneous extra loud cheer when we were treated to a contingent of white capped, white belted white gaitered sailors on their way probably to camp outside the city while awaiting shipment.

Gradually as the war rolled on, our own troops were replaced by contingents of troops from all over the world. Australians, New Zealanders (each with their own unique cap shape), Canadians, French, Belgians, Norwegians, Dutch, Poles, Czechs. From South Africa came troops from all the Commonwealth countries which were then all part of the British Empire. The most memorable of these to me were the giants of the Senegalese army. They all seemed to be over seven feet tall, and each one was garbed over his khaki in a magnificent scarlet cape, with, on his head, a scarlet fez to match. What a sight they made as they showed off their British army training; magnificent! The applause the onlookers afforded them reflected this. It, too, was magnificent. These fellows were with us for a few days because they were billeted in William Henry Street Barracks close by, and we actually tried to talk to some of them as they strolled past our house during off duty hours. They seemed to be always smiling.

So it went on over time. This procession of troops, thousands of miles from their own front doors, and here they were, marching or strolling along our own Netherfield Road. The procession rolled on, to include Egyptians, Moroccans, the newly formed Free French Army and the world renowned Ghurkas. This welcome invasion of our road culminated in a never to be forgotten take over (well, nearly) of our pubs by the Americans. But that鈥檚 another story.

Sadly, we also bore witness to the other side of the coin as more and more men appeared on the street wearing the bright blue shirt and red tie, which denoted 鈥渨ounded in action鈥�. Lots were on crutches, others in wheelchairs; others with arms in plaster or eyes bandaged.

Most categories of food were becoming harder to come by and many, many hours had to be spent waiting in a queue for this or that. But no one was ever near starving. It was truly amazing what our mams produced out of a few bones and a cup of barley.

Just in case we had any idea that the war was nearly over, and that the couple of air raids we had been through were just a joke, Liverpool Corporation decided to supply us with our very own (one between three houses) air raid shelter.

To do this, they sent workmen to knock a door-sized hole in our left hand cellar wall. This was framed with wood and a door fitted. They did the same to the right hand cellar wall of number 41, which meant that 37 and 41 now had access into the cellar of 39. Number 39鈥檚 cellar now had a thick corrugated steel roof put under the ceiling and steel pit props were put in place to hold it up. It really was very strong, as long as a bomb did not decide to explode in the back cellar just to be awkward.

This new reinforcement did not mean that it was now going to a pleasure to be bombed, it meant, on the debit side, that now there could be nineteen of us crammed into a dungeon; a windowless, low roofed dungeon, now that the window had been bricked up. But on the credit side, it meant that we could have candle or torch light and dare we have a fire in the grate?

We certainly did not pray for an air raid so that our new accommodation could be tested, but Messrs Heinkel, Junker and Dornier did not keep us waiting long.

Yes we did dare to have a fire in the grate, and we had tea and toast too. My mouth waters even now as I remember the taste of the buttered toast, the taste which is peculiar to toast which is made on the end of a fork held in front of an open fire. Delicious!

Air raids had by now become almost regular. So regular during the moonlight periods, especially when the moon rose early, that we would not even bother to go to bed. Life in our private shelter was, as hinted previously, very congenial. As well as buttered toast, we had lots of community singing and story telling. But even so, to us bundles of energy, (your uncle Dixie and uncle Alan, and your Grandad) soon became bored with the long hours we were forced to spend underground.

So one night, we, after the siren had sounded, instead of galloping down to the cellar, galloped outside to try and see the German bombers coming toward us, (Dad was not home, he was on fire watch duty!), and we would only return to the nest if we heard bombs dropping or mam screaming at us, whichever was the loudest!

It was on one of those occasions that I realised that the Germans were flying parallel with our tramlines!

CHAPTER TEN 鈥� REFUGEES, AND A FUNNY AIR RAID

So far, the bulk of the German bombs had been deposited on the docks and shipping, with a good proportion straying onto the close packed residential areas which paralleled the line of docks. Not surprisingly, the civilian population of these areas suffered out of all proportion to their importance. This led to a phenomenon more often associated with mainland Europe than the streets of Liverpool.

It began as a trickle along the lengths of Vauxhall, Stanley and Scotland Roads. These trickles converged at Roscommon Street or Prince Edwin Street, and contrary to physics and nature, became a flood flowing uphill; which flood became tidal as it flowed along Netherfield Road South.

The tide was humanity. Men, women, children laden with blankets, tents, pots, pans, crockery and food, and an infinite supply of good humour as they made for the final steep ascent of Browside from where they could look downward to the sea level where their tiring trek had begun, and perhaps even see the roof of their own home, hoping and praying that it would be there to return to the next morning as they sought to protect themselves by camping in the open fields beyond Everton Ridge.

We, and our neighbours would be at our front doorways each evening. We surrounded our mam who had taken her mother鈥檚 place on the top step, always ready with fresh cool water for any of our refugees in need. Our step, too, provided rest for many before they tackled the final ascent, and from them we learnt of the price that was having to be paid by the people living close to the docks.

The air raids had by now settled down into something of a routine. The night would claim its cloak of darkness, the sirens would sound and, hey ho, back to bed; all very yawnable.

So it came as something of a light relief one sunny summer afternoon about six o鈥檆lock, as I was earning my pocket money as a barber鈥檚 assistant, to the aforementioned Joe Sims of the starched apron, that the air raid siren sounded its warning warble. Nothing new in that, we often had alarms during the day, but apart from the ten o鈥檆lock recce plane, nothing had happened; so we carried on as usual. Imagine our surprise, then, when the unmistakable sound of German aircraft engines began to fill the air. Outside we went, and began to scan the sky. Joe Sims, our one customer and myself were joined by a group of men who had been propping up the bar at the pub at the top of China Street. Soon we were presented with surprise number two. The Germans were coming 鈥渦p river鈥� in the opposite direction from their usual approach.

There were twelve of them, arrayed in four flights of three. They were no danger to us for their flight path had them over Scotland Road, so we stood and stared as these cheeky chappies invading our air space on this beautiful early summer evening.

As I have pointed out earlier, part of the defence of the docks was a permanent array of barrage balloons which deterred bombers from coming in too low. So imagine our surprise and delight when the squadron leader himself flew straight into the mass of one of these balloons. The balloon immediately burst into flames, as did the bomber. We watched enthralled as the crew bailed out and parachuted to earth, while their comrades flew on without breaking formation and disappeared from our view without dropping even one bomb.

Many and varied were the theories advanced by the experts on the ground in an effort to explain this variation from accepted practice; but it remains a mystery to this day.

CHAPTER ELEVEN 鈥� CHRISTMAS 1940

By the time Christmas 1940 arrived, the Germans were beginning to annoy us. For sometime now, on occasions, they had been resorting to two raids a night. Being at the dark part of the year, raids could begin early and end early, so it was really infuriating to have to resort to the shelter again in the middle of the night. A consequence of this was that more and more people refused to get up again and took their chances in bed. We did from time to time.

On the nights that there were no raids it brought smiles to people鈥檚 faces and we were learning to appreciate a good night鈥檚 sleep. The periods of no attacks were, mostly always when the moon was down. Christmas 1940 was not one of them.

Before, during and after Christmas was a period of near constant attacks. We endured all the same routines as before, and again, as before, we heard bombs exploding. None came near us, but now we had a new game: 鈥渇ind the incendiaries鈥�. Whether by accident or design, the Germans were now dropping these fire-raising midgets on to us.

We were first appraised of this when your uncle Dixie came back into the shelter (being the young man he now was, he could come and go as he pleased), and when asked where he had been, he replied with the, to me now immortal phrase, 鈥減laying tick with the incendiary bombs鈥�.

As soon as I possibly could, I was out in the road, and there, nearly opposite, lying against the foot of the police station wall, was a bomb with its halo of yellow sulphur. Its atrocious smell akin to a stink bomb. These bombs were about two foot six inches long and three inches in diameter; and we were to see lots more of them before long. We became quite unafraid of handling them and used to try and collect them. (I got a kick up the backside from my dad for keeping one hidden in our backyard!)

Apart from this variation, the recipe was as before. The 鈥淩oyal Box鈥� of our top back bedroom window was ever popular and was usually our first port of call once the bombers had passed over our roofs. I suppose we should have felt honoured at being visited first and allowed a few samples of the merchandise before it went on general display. These samples left their mark of course. More and more streets around us could now boast new space, where only minutes before, houses had stood. Casualties mounted.

An air raid shelter in Sherrif Street took a direct hit with many fatalities, including a lot of children. One of the casualties of this incident was a close friend of your aunty Nora. She had left the shelter to go into her house for some reason, just as the bomb hit the shelter. The sight of the carnage she had to witness on returning, ensured that the rest of her life was spent in a mental hospital.

Christmas 1940 was memorable for all the wrong reasons, except one. After each air raid, the Germans were still daring to send a reconnaissance plane over the next morning. Why not? So far, it had only had snowballs thrown at it, until鈥athered at our usual sentry post as we were, we listened to the siren with a great deal of disinterest, and even the sound of the German plane elicited not much more than a 鈥渉ere he comes鈥�, as we looked skywards and began to follow his usual progress westwards. Imagine our surprise then when two Hurricanes came hurtling out of the clouds from above and behind him.

I think it was probably our cheers that alerted the pilot, as much as the sounds of the machine guns bracketing him from port and starboard. There then began our first real life sight of an aerial battle. We watched in awe as the three aircraft wheeled and spun and twisted; the German not retaliating with his guns, merely trying to extricate himself from the trap. Each Hurricane was firing at him as the occasion allowed, but all to no avail. The curtain came down on this enthralling act, with the recce plane hurtling eastwards at his best speed, with our planes in hot pursuit as all three disappeared from our sight and our happy faces.

This cloudy fracas was to prove the beginning of the end for our lone visitors. From that day on, any recce plane that made it as far as Granny鈥檚 doorstep could be sure of a warm welcome. So warm in fact, that their visits became less and less until they ceased altogether. It was exciting for us while it lasted though.

Our only disappointment was that we were never able to find even one machine gun bullet out of all the thousands that fell to earth from the dog fights we witnessed taking place above our heads. We searched for them wherever we went but we searched in vain. The war news so early in the conflict was nearly always bad news. So this first show of retaliation above our roofs, small as it was, cheered us all up immensely.

Yes, we enjoyed the dog fights between the M.E.鈥檚 and the Hurricanes; but an even more exciting vista of aerial anger was in store for us. And for us alone in the privileged position we were able to occupy as spectators, (the only spectators) at that particular geographical point.

CHAPTER TWLEVE 鈥� A DAY TO REMEMBER, A DAYLIGHT RAID ON THE PIER HEAD

Daylight raids were something of a rarity; so you can imagine our surprise when, early on the afternoon of a fine day, the sirens sounded. Our gang were gathered outside 鈥淪later鈥檚鈥� the cobblers, next door to number 37 when it happened.

I remember my Mam coming out and , seeing your uncle Alan and myself safely within scruff of the neck distance, she went calmly back indoors, entirely unperturbed by the warning expressed in the undulating sound waves still invading our ears. Mam鈥檚 action, and our own unbroken conversation seeming to prove that we did not expect much in the way of enemy action at this time of day. Little did we know that within minutes, we would be witnesses to a chapter of actions which would have done credit to the imaginations of the story writers of the 鈥淲izard鈥�, or the 鈥淩over鈥� or the 鈥淗otspur鈥�

It all began by our conversation breaking down as our ears picked up the first faint sounds of bomber engines in the distance. Our eyebrows lifted in amazement and as our in-built direction finders honed in on the sounds, our legs responded automatically by rushing us in the direction of Everton Brow as we gleefully yelled 鈥淛erries!鈥�

The top of Everton Brow was no help. We could hear more but we could not see the planes. 鈥淭he park, the park!鈥�, someone yelled, at which we galloped up the steep array of the garden steps to the top of Browside from where, another steep uphill dash took us at last into Rupert Lane Park; which boasted the finest vantage point in all Liverpool, its oriental-roofed bandstand. Without hesitation, we invaded for the first time in our lives, this sacred precinct which had hosted the musicians of probably every famous regiment of the British Army and which allowed us now to look down, yes look down, on a battle taking place below us at about a mile distance.

The focus of our attention was a flight of German bombers travelling from east to west which had broken formation and each bomber seemed to be choosing its own targets from the vast array on offer: from shipping tied up in the docks, the docks themselves, warehouses, dock gates and bridges, and the hundreds of office buildings packed like sardines in the 鈥渃ity鈥� quarter.

We watched in fascination the huge bulk of the bombing machines as they ever so gracefully dived, banked, climbed, circled on seeming wingtips; did all but actually pirouette as they attempted to accomplish the mission which had brought them this far west. All the time hoping to avoid the bursts of anti-aircraft fire puff-balling mostly above them.

To us in our bandstand eyrie, the scene was almost from a silent film. Removed as we were by distance, the battle sounds that reached us were as a flight of bees and the guns as pop guns. But there was no mistaking the much more forceful explosions of the large number of bombs as they exploded among the buildings and ships, each one showing off with its tell-tale plume of smoke and debris. It was impossible to count the number of the raiders, scattered as they were among all the three dimensions, and never still. But we had no difficulty at all in counting the five Spitfires which burst the bubble of near silent surrealism which had cocooned us in the bandstand as, with first, a powerfully vacuumed 鈥渨hoosh鈥� followed in seconds by the high pitched whine of their Rolls Royce engines, they planed steeply down to the battle zone to invite the marauders to leave.

Our rapturous cheers of course went with them and we watched in awe as we saw them convert a graceful chorus of ground hugging, tippy toeing ballerinas into a 鈥淒antean鈥� snake pit of twisting, wriggling, cloud begging vipers.

Anti-aircraft guns had fallen silent in deference to the more efficient Spitfires; and the 鈥淪pittys鈥� proved their efficiency within minutes as the trail of black smoke from one of the bombers proved. As we watched, we saw him trying to gain height in the clouds. But gradually, he lost power and disappeared from our view in the direction of the Irish Sea.

By the time the Spitfires arrived, the action had progressed from south to north of the famous Liverpool Pier Head, with its world famous Liver Buildings, and where we had been looking downward at the ground hogging bombers, the whole sky now became a perfect backdrop for this real life drama.

For a short time the sky seemed full of aircraft climbing, diving, ducking, weaving until one by one, those German pilots who saw their chance, sneaked off into the wide blue yonder.

As explained before, very little sound reached us from the battle front, and being daylight, there was no sign of the tracer shells to be hypnotised by. But the acrobatic aerobics of the aeroplanes, was hypnotic enough for us.

Before the sky emptied completely, we were treated to the sight of another German plane copping it. This one too, began to trail smoke and wisely turned tail to the east and home; disappearing from our sight in the direction of Warrington.

As we departed the bandstand in a state of great excitement, I noticed children playing happily on the swings and seesaws as if bombs and battling aeroplanes were an everyday occurrence.

No less surprised was our mam when we told her where we had been and what we had seen. Dad, too had no idea what had taken place that day, (wherever he had been).

Sixty years ago nearly! And I can still see the picture as clearly as ever.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 鈥� THE MAY BLITZ

May, the month that really lifts one鈥檚 spirits after having to endure the two faces of April with its bluster and, sometimes, gales. April, with its tormentingly sneak previews of what could be in store in the weeks ahead, as it handed over its authority to its neighbour month. Yes, April wet and windy April, but thrice blessed April as its inclemency kept the skies dark and turbulent above us, denying the pleasure of clear skies to those who would harm us.

Our sleep had been less interrupted of late as the enemy endeavoured to make more profitable use of the daylight hours. But April was coming to an end in a state of uncommon glory which allowed the predators of the air full licence to resume their nefarious trade.

Once again the banshee wail of warning became the norm. So normal in fact that many people retired to their shelter, be it cellar or under the stairs, or in some cases the street shelter, rather than the bedroom. Early to bed made sense too, as then you had at least some hours sleep behind you which was much better than being rudely awakened soon after dropping off.

As April 1941 petered out, and the monotony of nightly air raids resumed, I think we began to foster an 鈥渋t will never happen to us鈥� mentality. So far, of all the air raids we had endured, of all the bombers which had flown directly over our heads, not one bomb had come close enough to us in the cellar of number 39, which could be classed as a near miss.

Perhaps we were safe because we were 鈥渋n the eye of the storm鈥�! perhaps dear old Netherfield Road really was a trail of light for the navigators to lock on to; and this was the reason for streets on either side of us being hit but we weren鈥檛. But that pattern was about to change in the seven nights leading up to the 3rd and 4th of May 1941.

Quite obviously, orders had gone out to the bomber wings of the Luftwaffe, that a more intensive form of attack had to be mounted against Liverpool. It may have been for tactical reasons, or it may have been a calculated effort at terror bombing. Whatever the reason, it made itself known to us in our shelter, in the form of increased noise.

We had become used to a certain level of noise from the bombers鈥� engines, so that one raid did not seem to differ from another in intensity. But April/May 1941 was different.

The German High Command were, of course, far too busy to write to us at Netherfield Road to tell us that air raids from now on would not be exactly the same as previous offerings. So, when the alarm sounded on the first of these 鈥渄ifferent鈥� nights, we all just followed our usual routine. Out of bed, dressed, down the stairs, and into the cellar of 39. The first job was to light the fire (light the fire so we could be bombed in comfort within six feet of an operating gas main and visible pipes), then we put the kettle on so we could make the tea to go with the toast; then we could settle down to another boring couple of noisy hours. The noises began. Bomber engines, anti-aircraft guns, bomber engines, bomber engines, bomber engines.

Talk stopped in the cellar. We were used to aircraft noise but this was different, and as if to prove it, our dad and Mr Booth, whose cellar we were in, came down from the road where they had been watching events, as they sometimes did, and excitingly gasped out 鈥渢here are hundreds of them!鈥�

This comment seemed to add legitimacy to the noise, for now we understood what had forced us into silence. And silent we remained as my mind pictured an endless armada of huge bombers, wing tip to wing tip, silvered by the moon, chimney hopping over our roof tops. Hundreds of them was given credence because the force of the noise which was pressing us down was unbelievable and unbroken, suggesting a continuous stream of aircraft.

Imagine yourself sealed into a large metal oil drum which has been surrounded by a posse of deep bass amplifiers so beloved of pop groups today, and each of these amplifiers are pulsating at full volume, and you may get some idea what life was like in our air raid shelter during the seven nights of what came to be known as 鈥淭he May Blitz鈥�.

Sealed in as we were, in our ten foot square stone floored box, our imaginations were set free to conjure up a variety of hellish tableaux, with the increased engine noises forming a natural backdrop to soak up whatever horrors of smoke and flame may be visited upon us.

More bombers meant more bombs, and even in the early minutes of this new offensive, we were aware of both. I remember quite well my whole being taken over by the noise. My imagination was with the unending armada above me; an armada so vast in numbers, it seemed, that they seemed to be standing still.

More bombs indeed. But we were still in the eye of the storm. Was Granny鈥檚 doorstep the epicentre?

The sometimes whistle, sometimes screech from above, pitched beautifully to penetrate our brick walls and our steel roof, but still in no great profusion, never failed to elicit silence in our cave, as we listened for the explosions. Quite a number nearer now than previously, and seeming to be more powerful. We could do nothing but sit and wait, and try to work out where each bomb had fallen, guided from time to time by the bells of the fire engines and ambulances rushing to deal with the realities of pain, injury, death, anger and grief which we could not conjure up in our isolation.

After what seemed many hours, we were free at last to go above ground again, to join our neighbours and passers by, and put together a picture of the price that had been extracted from so many innocents this night.

It could perhaps be asked, 鈥渨hose side our tramlines were on鈥�? as well as be thankful that granny鈥檚 house was exerting a protective influence around her offspring, which no number of 鈥渁rrows鈥� could penetrate.

This, our second 鈥渇irst night鈥�, was to be the template for the six to follow. What I have described above, aptly describes the form the air raids took relevant to our own small quarter, except for what transpired domestically as it were, and is described more fully in the next chapter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 鈥� THE NEAR MISS

Can being bombed ever become routine? Yes, it can!
There we were, a mixed group of men and women, boys and one young lady (your Auntie Mary), crammed into our small hidey hole, either chattering away among ourselves, or drinking tea, or singing popular songs, led by Mary; while all the time, for seemingly hour after hour all hell was breaking loose around us.

We had endured this routine now for so many hours during so many nights over so many months, that the routine was shaping us to 鈥渋ts鈥� own purpose. We became somewhat blas茅 in our reaction to the sound of explosions, blas茅, and even expert, in that I suppose we were now able to assess the possible threat of the bombs by the sound they made as they tore the air waves to shreds in their descent. To prove this theory, let me describe the scene as the one and only piece of German ordnance which was allowed to penetrate the outer perimeter of Granny鈥檚 defences announced its intention, and demonstrated its ability.

We had been 鈥渢aking cover鈥� for a long time, this raid was proving to be 鈥渏ust routine鈥� as we sat calmly either staring into the fire or listening to the conversations going on around us; until, as if at a given signal a silence descended on our cellar. a silence which was loud enough to expel the bomber noises to the outside where they belonged as they were over-powered by the screech of a falling bomb.

I think everyone was instantly aware that this bomb was heading our way and immediately assumed a calmness of expectation.

Louder and louder it came. Louder and closer with, to me, a much deeper tone than usual and then, instant silence, as our ears excluded all other noise in the search for the outcome of this bomb鈥檚 journey. We did not have long to wait as the endless seconds erupted into noise and vibration, as the very earth beneath us shook in protest, and dust cascaded down the walls of the cellar around the perimeter of our steel roof. A mental silence again as we tried to mentally locate where the bomb had come down. My own guess was that Bentham鈥檚 had copped it, and from the sound of running feet and raised voices from outside, It seemed I was not far wrong..

This near miss obviously brought home to us all the seriousness of the situation we were in. Because the silence persisted among us all and persisted until the noise of the bombers鈥� engines began to fade, at which point, led by Dad and Mr Booth, we were out of the cellar and up to the road in double quick time.

We were at once drawn by the noise toward the lane, passing the still intact Bentham鈥檚 on the way, to find lots of activity around the first air raid shelter.

Lights were flashing at the rear of the four storey buildings which shop fronted onto the main road, as helmeted police and air raid wardens scrabbled about atop a mound of rubble which minutes previously had been the back yard of what our family referred to as 鈥淏ibbys鈥�.

The all clear had not yet sounded, and the sound of explosions, guns and aircraft engines could be heard in the distance. Most people were still in the shelters, but those from the top shelter and a few more were grouped outside John Mitchell鈥檚 house, one or two of the ladies were crying.

We were soon informed that the Lawler鈥檚, Mother, Father and their twin son and daughter (aged about 7-9) and their Grandmother were trapped in the ruins, and that one or two uniformed people were trying to find them.

At this news, your uncle Dixie, and Alan and myself climbed up onto the debris and began to help to clear a passage into the back cellar of the building. It was not too long, with the help of more volunteers, before we had found the back cellar door and were delighted to see first the tall figure of Mrs Lawler鈥檚 mother emerging and Alan and I helped to guide her over the ruins of what had been her home and passed her over to the waiting ladies to be comforted.

More traumatic was the emergence of 鈥淏lind Bibby鈥�. Mrs Bibby was a blind person so her emergence was the cause of great joy. What a difficult task it was for those who helped her, in her sightlessness, to guide her across the minefield of bricks, rubble, timber, and glass, into the waiting arms of her friends. For Mrs Lawler鈥檚 Mother, the worst was yet to come. Her beautiful blond haired daughter, with her son-in-law, and her equally beautiful twin granddaughter twin and grandson had perished in the ruins.

We were to find out that Grandma was afraid of going into the street shelter outside her daughter鈥檚 front door, so the whole family took shelter with Grandma in her cellar kitchen to lend their strength and comfort to someone they loved. I have no knowledge of what happened to Mrs Lawler鈥檚 mother over the years, but I do know that Mrs Bibby was found a home eventually not too far away and continued as a close friend of all our family until she passed away peacefully many years later.

The bomb which took the Lawler family was a new breed of bomb which became known as an aerial torpedo.

The facts that came to light regarding this incident, indicated that the missile first entered the premises of Alf Cheeseman鈥檚 pub on the corner of Upper Beau Street, via his beer cellar trap door. From where it burrowed under the ground (without spilling a drop of Alf鈥檚 beer!) we were told, until it exploded upwards causing the deaths noted previously, but not completely destroying the building.

All of this took place within one hundred feet of where your grandad was sheltering. I had been lucky.

I had my first brush with tragedy on a personal level. Worse was to follow. Technology was about to demonstrate another more lethal progression, and lift the lid on a scene that would be reported some 10,000 miles away on a scale that would stagger the whole world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 鈥� ANFIELD CEMETERY

As the May Blitz began to have an effect, our everyday lives were inconvenienced by such things as having to queue up twice a day for fresh water which had been transported to us in tanker lorries.

Gas supplies were also frequently unavailable. But that was no real hardship, for most people were still able to cook on open coal fires, most of which had ovens attached for baking in, and as I have hinted above, there was an unending supply of timber of all shapes and sizes thanks to the demolition experts from the continent.

This bounty supplemented the sometimes meagre supplies of coal which were available. Coal was only ever rationed by its scarcity, and it too had to be queued for when fresh supplies arrived at 鈥淎mie鈥檚鈥�, our local sell anything shop, nestling under the Everton Ridge with its homely aroma of paraffin oil and its adjacent coal yard.

A lot of our time was now spent during daylight hours tramping around from bomb site to bomb site. By now, there were so many of them we just could not keep up with them. Our travels in this respect proved something too.

The great majority of bombs were dropped between Netherfield Road and the river from our purely local point of view. Occasions of bomb damage above the Everton Ridge from Heyworth Street/Everton Road eastwards was nearly perfunctory, seeming to prove my assertion that our road and its glistening necklace being a route marker for the navigators.

During all the bombing we had all endured to date, nothing ever brought the population up in arms until, during one of our seven nights of May, some German bombs exploded among the graves of Anfield cemetery. As this news filtered down to Netherfield road, the reaction must have continued the shock wave of horror emanating from its focal point, especially of concern to all those who had recently laid loved ones to rest there.

Unfortunately, Anfield cemetery backed onto a very obvious railway embankment, with equally obvious large girder bridges at each end, with its ever shining tracks pointing to and from the docks.
I like to think there was no malice intended in the bombs that disturbed Granny鈥檚 peace.

The same sentiment could not be awarded to another new type of armament which more or less brought the May Blitz to an end; thankfully proving that Herr Field Marshall Goering鈥檚 brylcreem boys had shot their bolt as far as Liverpool was concerned.

The new bomb and its power to devastate in what proved to be a futuristic way became known as 鈥漧and mines鈥�.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 鈥� NEW BOMBS ARRIVE BY PARACHUTE

Here we are again, happy as can be, all good friends and gathered around our camp fire in the middle of the night, having to imagine the contortions of the deadly glow worms outside our tent.

The scene was the same, the sound effects were the same, with the double basses in preponderance as usual.

What was different was a heightened alertness brought on by the very near miss by the aerial torpedo which devastated Mrs Bibby鈥檚 home with such fatal results.

Alert we were, but my memory tells me that, although the number of bombers above us seemed to be as close packed as ever, the number of bombs falling from them were very few.

I recall the bomber sounds tapering off and the welcome quiet returning when a series of explosions reached our ears from some distance away, explosions, yes! Earth shaking volcanic tremors, no. The explosions were far enough away from us to be of no concern, so, when the bombers had passed and we took to the road, everything was normal, that is, fire engines and ambulances passed us from time to time but not in such profusion so as to cause concern. So off to bed, and hope for no more alerts that night, what was left of it.

No hearty 鈥淲akey, Wakeys!鈥� these mornings from our mam. Mam was only too pleased for us to catch up on lost sleep these mornings, and with no school to go to, it was a case of being woken by hunger as much as the sunshine blazing through the window.

On parking myself on the dining chair in expectation of hot sugared tea and thick butter-oozing toast, on this particular morning after the night before, I was greeted with the news that 鈥淩ose Vale, Anthony Street, Arkwright Street and Robsart Street have been flattened鈥�.

Had I fallen asleep and missed something last night? Nothing much had happened as far as I could remember. So, Alan and I finished our breakfast and went to see what 鈥渇lattened鈥� meant.

We soon covered the hundred yards to the top of Rosscommon Street, from where we were able to look along the straight seventy five yards of Abram Street to where, up until now, one鈥檚 vision would be brought to a dead stop by the fronts of the houses on the far side of Rose Vale, but no longer. Standing now anywhere in Abram Street, one had an uninterrupted view, over mounds of rubble, to the fronts of the now windowless, but still holding onto their slate roofs and walls of the houses on one side of most of Robsart Street.

Venturing to the far end of Abram Street and out of the confines of its walls, we could now see the panorama of destruction which had taken such a short time to be accomplished in all its vastness.

This was different, frighteningly different, until now we had become used to seeing 98% of the time, single houses or shops which had been destroyed by the simple method of a not too powerful bomb smashing through the roof and floors down to the resistance of packed earth in the cellar or ground floor, and then exploding upwards; its force being directed upwards and outwards, back and front. This resulted in what I described earlier of odd spaces here and there in the unbroken miles of terraced housing which accommodated the population.

What we were now witnessing was the after work of a new theory being put into practice. This theory indicated that if a heavier more powerful bomb was floated down by parachute from the aircraft, and made to explode 鈥渁bove鈥� the target, by means of a timer or pressure device, then much more damage would be caused to property beneath it by the expanding shock waves of its force. It worked.

Alan and I stood at the end of Abram Street and looked across to Rosbart Street at a glance, a distance which would have taken us five minutes to cover, even using our local knowledge of the network of 鈥渂ack jiggers鈥� to our advantage. The scene upwards to the now perimeter, standing windowless, three storey residential shop property fronting Netherfield Road North, was the same as that looking steeply down hill toward Great Homer Street. Inside these perimeters, there was not a slate roof in sight, not a window, not a door. The only buildings to survive this blast were the street air raid shelters, now topped by heaps of debris, but nevertheless, acting as markers for where the streets had once been.

Five hundred or more homes had been converted into rubble in not much more than the blink of an eye by these new 鈥渓and mines鈥�, as they came to be called; and Alan and I stood and watched as the survivors searched among the remains of their homes for anything they could carry away with them.

All of this not much more than two hundred yards from, and visible from, Granny鈥檚 doorstep.

Was Granny aware now that never again would such sights and sounds envelop her loved ones on such a scale, and that at last, she could rest in peace.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - EVACUATION

Peace, perfect peace. So many nights now undisturbed. The cellar fire in number 39 remained unlit most nights now, (were we missing our cosy cellar, and the tea and toast and chit chat and sing song?), but the fear remained. It was the unknown that finally persuaded our Mam and Dad, along with the parents of the majority of those children like ourselves who had "stuck it out鈥� so far, that we should at last be sent away for safety. In a word, evacuated.

Alan and I were to say goodbye to all this. All this!! Our 鈥渘ever a dull moment鈥� of plane spotting, bomb shrieking, gun blasting, refugee watching, toast making, fire engine and ambulance chasing, as well as troop cheering as whole regiments of soldiers, sailors and airmen from all over the world saluted Granny鈥檚 throne by their presence as they marched past in their mostly khaki or blue, but sometimes more colourful uniforms behind their regimental bands.

All this!! Jumping (without a parachute) from first floor bedroom windows of bombed houses, or dropping through between the naked floors of the long denuded rooms, sometimes stripping them even barer when more wood was needed to keep our home fire burning.

Probably most of all, we would miss the thrill of the, now lessening, daytime air raid alarms, when we would 鈥渧anish鈥� from parental eyes so that we could watch the German aeroplanes as they continued to try to obliterate our docks.

Little did we know that 鈥渁ll this鈥� was to make for excellent story telling material outside the locked park gates at the top of 鈥淏all Hey Green鈥� for many evenings to come. Evenings in such a setting that should automatically preclude air raid sirens, but their banshee wail followed us even to paradise.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - UNWANTED

All the paper work had been done. Evacuation day had arrived. We had kissed our Mothers goodbye, and were now (for the first time in our lives), seated on a Liverpool Corporation, double decker bus outside Heyworth Street School.

Within seconds we were out of sight of our tearful Mothers, and within ten minutes we were being sorted into compartments of a train which had been awaiting us at Lime Street Station.

The train that was to take us to?鈥�.we had not been told鈥o we, that is, your Grandad, your uncle Alan, Billy Thorpe and Georgie Thorpe, Louise Lowe and Susie Johnson all from China Street, which had taken four bombs, and all from our school.
We six were to become lifelong pals because of this journey on which we were to embark together any minute now.

The train steamed us through the countryside, flashing through nameless stations, (all name boards having been removed in case of invasion), during which time we ate our packed lunch and drank our bottled water.

During the journey, our accompanying teacher Miss Savage, informed us that we were to be accommodated at a school at Stoke-on-Trent that night, and continue our journey next day.

A second train journey from Stoke-on-Trent saw our small party deposited at the country station of the town of Leek, which of course no one had ever heard of.
From the station we were taken by cars, Alan and I and the Thorpes in one, and Susie and Louise in the other.

I was the first to be dropped off at my new home, where, for the first (and only) time in my life, I was forced to assume the mantle of an unwanted child.

When I stepped out of the car, I was confronted by two ladies, one young, one older who were in fact Mam and newly married daughter.

Without so much as a hello to me, the younger woman informed the social department lady who accompanied us, that she had asked for a girl. Eventually, she agreed that I would be accommodated on the understanding that a girl would be provided and I would be taken elsewhere.

I was taken inside, and shock, horror, not a speck of dirt anywhere. I was taken through the front door for the first and last time, from then on it was the back door only and boots off before entering the kitchen.

The house was a newly built council house on a very nice hillside estate and the newly married 鈥淐handlers鈥�, for that was their name, were its first occupants. The house was, as you may expect under the circumstances, beautifully furnished and it even had carpets on the stairs as well as in the bedrooms.

More amazing still, it even had a bathroom with hot water taps, and a toilet upstairs. My bedroom was an urchin鈥檚 nightmare, all spick and span, no clothes or boots allowed on the floor; and sadly it almost became my prison cell because, when I was not at school or visiting Alan and the others, I was told to stay in my room all the time, except for a few occasions when Mr Chandler, whom I liked very much, and who tried his best to make my stay happy, brought me down to the living room (spotlessly pristine) and the three of us played some board game or other. Mr Chandler at least tried to talk to me, and I have to admit that I cried myself to sleep more than once.

Alan meanwhile, had found a home from home with a farm labourer and his wife and children, where he was very well fed and very well looked after.

Eventually I could stand it no longer and wrote a letter home asking for rescue. It seemed an awful long time after writing the letter that, being confined to my room as usual, I heard the doorbell ring. Then I was called down to be confronted with one of the most wonderful sights of my young life. My Dad, standing on the doorstep, resplendent in his never to be forgotten blue suit, white shirt, and tie, and his smart matching trilby hat. I threw myself into his arms and cried and cried as he hugged me tight.

When I subsided, we walked away from the house and I took him to collect Alan. Dad took us into the town and we had a snack at a caf茅 which was where he told me to go back to the Chandlers and he would see that I was moved elsewhere.

CHAPTER NINETEEN 鈥� ORPHANED AND RECLAIMED

Elsewhere was another small adventure. A small adventure which began by transforming me from an unwanted child into an 鈥渙rphan鈥�.

I was collected by car again, and taken away from the Chandlers, on a longish journey to the region of Burton-on-Trent, too, would you believe, a Dr Barnardo鈥檚 home. Not with any malicious intent I might add, just as a temporary shelter until I could be re-housed.

I soon found out that this establishment was for the care of children who had lost their families and were suffering from related nervous maladies due to this factor.
Sleeping was in dormitories. Dining and washing and bathing was on a communal basis, and the nursing and teaching staff were all very kind. I think I spent about a month here and soon teamed up with a lad from Manchester; and the two of us (being the biggest), soon came to rule the roost!

We earned ourselves extra rations in the shape of second helpings, by volunteering to shovel five ton of coke into a dumper truck on a railway track and pushing it about a hundred yards to the coke chute of the boiler house, and tipping it down the cute. Hard work, but the reward was worth the effort.

Back at Leek, my situation had improved tremendously. I was once again in touch with my brother and our friends from home. We all now settled down to a happy sojourn in a beautiful corner of a beautiful county. The huge Ashbourne Road School was a happy place for all of us. The local boys and girls were a really good crowd and we had great fun together.

We were introduced to 鈥淕ypsy Hollow鈥�, and that is all you are going to be told of it, the name.

Leek town itself was, and still is, a lovely market town. I got a part time job at the barbers on the strength of my experience at Joe Sims. It was marvellous listening to the broad dialects of the farmers as they came in for a haircut on market days.

It was here at this barbers that I was baptised (by the barber鈥檚 assistant) 鈥渢he Ball Hey Green Chinaman鈥�; he had the mistaken idea that Liverpool was one big Chinatown.

Most of all though, my new found happiness at Leek was due entirely to old Mr and Mrs Beff, with whom I had been newly billeted. Mr and Mrs Beff were around pensionable age, and they had lived in their council house since it had been built. They had one son, Jack, who was serving abroad with the army at this time, so it was Jack鈥檚 room which was lent to me. The Beff鈥檚 home was a real home from home to me. I felt instantly comfortable in this, my new home, and Mr and Mrs Beff were a new Mam and Dad.

No boots off at the back door here, or go up to your soulless room. It was a warm, loving house I was in now. Well fed and clothed, plenty of fish and chips from the chippy in Ball Hey Green (next to the Beff鈥檚 local pub), to where I was frequently sent for a basin full of savouries and hot gravy for supper. With, from the pub, a sneaky jug of ale for Mrs Beff. I counted myself very lucky to have been billeted here.
There was plenty for youngsters to do at Leek. There was a recreation ground with the usual swings, roundabouts etc. But I liked best being taken into the woods which bordered the River Churnet as it meandered through the defiles and hollows (of which Gypsy Hollow was one), below the 鈥榬ec鈥� and out into the country forming a border for many farms.

One of the local pastimes for boys, was to cut down saplings and use the three inch diameter trunk as a vaulting pole. It was this pastime (which we townies came to enjoy very much), which nearly resulted in your Grandad becoming a sort of casualty of the war. One of our favourite places for vaulting was over the two foot six inch high pointed spike railings which enclosed the flower gardens facing the 鈥榬ec鈥� gates.

I had become expert at this and was repeating a performance when my vaulting pole slipped on the pavement. I came down with a wallop, straight onto one of the spikes, but (I was told by the doctor later), the spike entered my anatomy at the one point which avoided piercing my skin. So there I was, impaled on a spike unable to help myself, and would you believe, no pain whatsoever!

I was eventually lifted off by some men and carried the short distance to Mrs Beff鈥檚, and a doctor was sent for. The doctor, after examining me, told me I was lucky to be alive, as had the spike penetrated another inch, that would have been the end of me.

As the days got shorter, the rec gates were locked earlier; and after we had exhausted ourselves with chasing games, we would all, locals and evacuees alike, sit on the spacious steps of the recreation ground entrance and talk.

It was here that those of us from Liverpool and Manchester, usually held court as our new friends listened spellbound to our tales of air raids and dogfights and bombers and destruction and all that went toward making life in a big city both exciting and hazardous.

Air raid sirens rarely sounded at Leek. When they did, it was usually during the time we were at the rec, and we often saw German bombers in the distance, or heard them if we could not see them. And on one or two clear evenings, we were able to see the anti-aircraft gun flashes around Stoke-on-Trent, as attempts were made to shoot the bombers down.

The departure of your uncle Alan and myself from Leek was very sudden. One Saturday morning we were together with some of our friends playing in the children鈥檚 playground, when Alan came running over to me shouting 鈥淢y Dad鈥檚 here! My Dad鈥檚 here!鈥�, and pointing at the fence, over the top of which could be seen Dad鈥檚 smiling face below his blue trilby. Within seconds, we were in his arms and his first words to us were 鈥淚鈥檓 taking you home鈥�. My next clear recollection is sitting alongside Dad in the railway carriage with his arm around me and my head buried in his chest.

I have always remembered Leek with great affection, and I did make a sort of pilgrimage back there when I was able to meet young Jack Beff, married with a family, living not more than a hundred yards from his parents鈥� old home. I was able to thank him personally for what his parents had done for me during the war.

CHAPTER TWENTY 鈥� HAPPY DAYS AND HOME AGAIN

Home again, and older. The sights and sounds were mostly as we had left them; except that now the air raid sirens were beginning to rust. Since the May Blitz, the Germans had no doubt come to the conclusion that defence was the better part of valour, and so began to keep their bombers at home more. Air raids had gradually fizzled out until they ceased altogether.

No new spaces had appeared while we had been away, and evacuees were beginning to filter back. By the time that Alan and I returned from Leek, both Everton Terrace and Roscommon Street schools were once again showing signs of normality. I rejoined school at Roscommon Street to fulfil my two years to bring me to my fourteenth birthday. On which I began to earn a living, and was soon helping the war effort in all sorts of ways including making miles of chains, and huge shackles for use on warships, and even working on a secret device which was known as a 鈥渒ite鈥�, but was in fact a very cumbersome and expensive girdle, which surrounded cargo ships and caused sea mines to explode before hitting the boat; thereby saving lives and cargo. They must have been successful because we made lots of them.

I had to do my duty as a fire watcher on night duty, but the sirens never sounded, so it was a long bore, (with sneaky naps in between).

It was while employed at this, my first job, that the war in Europe finally came to an end. I recall quite clearly how all our bunch traipsed down from Granny鈥檚 doorstep, coatless on a warm evening, singing as we went, to see the lights (street lights, window lights and house lights) come on again for the first time in six years. We sang and danced and danced and sang all over Lime Street in our thousands that night. Then we went home to bed to sleep the sleep of the just, at last.

A great weight had been lifted off our shoulders. I doubt that any member of our family could ever sit on the top step of 37 Netherfield Road South, without being aware of Granny鈥檚 presence there. I know I could not, and I鈥檓 sure she would have been delighted to say 鈥淕ranny鈥檚 war is over鈥�. Your Grandad鈥檚 war was over, too.

The End

EPILOGUE

I am sure that many of you who have read the foregoing will be very surprised to be told that dealing only within the area encompassed by my story, there are still the scars of the air raids to be seen, even after fifty five years. Look for the gaps in the buildings along Shaw Street, Islington and the streets connecting it to London Road, and London Road itself. Prescot Street, Daulby Street, Pembroke Place, to name but a few along the main streets.

There are lots more to be found if you look for them.

Granny鈥檚 doorstep has been levelled and the tramlines buried, but neither by German bombs. The contours of Everton Ridge have been rounded off to form an architectural garden complex where visitors can stand in safety under the skies where hordes of bombers once held sway. Visitors can even walk across the ground where a complete anti-aircraft gun battery was obliterated by a direct hit from a bomb, leaving just a crater behind. From the Everton Park, visitors can see the same panorama that was available to us from our back bedroom window, but without the fires or the explosions, or the tracer shells, or the fire engines and ambulances. My story has been about a small portion of Liverpool, which bore its brunt with the same fortitude and courage as so many more of our countrymen and women and children.

It has been worthwhile remembering.

Auntie Nora and Uncle George have played no part in the events described in "Grandad's War." Auntie Nora had already been living in Birmingham for some time when the war began, and no doubt has her own memories of air raids.

For your Uncle George, destiny had been nudging him in the direction of the Mediterranean island of Crete, and an historical niche in military history, by ensuring that he was part of the Royal Marine rear guard, who, alongside detachments of the New Zealand and Australian forces, were the last allied troops to escape from that embattled island after it had been invaded and overrun by superior Axis forces.

By commandeering a fishing boat, and by means of makeshift sails and paddles, plus the energy of relays of swimmers pushing the vessel along, they set out to cover some 400-500 miles of the Mediterranean. Destination, Egypt.

They succeeded, your Uncle George was one of this courageous band of men. We are proud of him.

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