大象传媒

The Uncanny Story of a Flying Bomb

There were Questions in Parliament during the week following D-Day about mysterious explosions in Sussex and the Home Secretary, Mr Herbert Morrison, was pressed to say that 鈥減ilotless aircraft鈥� were flying over the Channel and landing in the rural South-East. Hitler鈥檚 secret weapon was now out, and I wondered how effective it would be as I listened to the news on the wireless.

Since 1943 my husband had been overseas, serving in the Fleet Air Arm and I was living alone with a small baby in a rented furnished bungalow in Hook Road, Surbiton.
Friday 16th June, 1944 was a fine day, the air raid siren had sounded in the morning but there was no noise of aircraft or gunfire. The day passed quietly, but there was no 鈥淎ll Clear鈥�.

My four month old son Robert had always slept in his wooden cot in the small bedroom next to mine. But on this occasion for some unknown reason I put him to sleep in his black coach-built high pram, with the hood up, and I wheeled it next to my bed that evening, as there was no space in his room. I had experienced many air raids on London and I was not afraid, even though I had no form of air raid shelter, not even a cupboard under the stairs because it was a bungalow.

I slept soundly until 4 am, when it was still quiet and dawn was breaking. Without knowing why, I crept to the chest of drawers, took out a shawl and wrapped Robert in it without waking him. I put him back in the pram, slipped into bed and fell asleep.

An almighty explosion shot me out of bed; I grabbed a screaming baby from the pram and ran and ran. I found myself running barefoot up the road in my nightdress, and realised that I had not opened the front door to get out. There was no door when I returned to the entrance, and the hanging wall clock in the hall was smashed with the hands stopped at five past six.

Dust and broken glass covered everything and there was nowhere to put the baby down while I dressed. The ceiling in the bedroom had gaping holes to the sky. Plaster dust outlined my shape on the white pillowcase. Long sharp daggers of glass had penetrated the pram hood, but miraculously the ceiling above the pram was intact. Devastation in the small bedroom was even worse. The entire ceiling was down and the cot was covered with splintered glass and rubble. Robert would surely have been killed had he slept there. Could it have been a miracle which saved him? I am not in the least religious, but I am sure that fate decreed Someone, somewhere was guiding me that night.

The first flying bomb to fall in the Borough of Surbiton on 17th June had exploded at the bottom of my garden, completely destroying some properties and damaging several more. The debris of that disaster littered the garden, but the loss of lives and the memory of escape from death will remain with me for ever.

Beryl Friend

PS This explosion left me with a 鈥渟hell shock鈥� reaction to loud and unexpected noises, which still affect me to this day.

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