大象传媒

At the time these events took place, I was working as a clerk at the London North Eastern Railway company's Bishopsgate Goods depot in London, had registered for military service and was awaiting my call-up into the Army. Although war had been declared in September 1939, we had only realised just how bad things had become when the Dunkirk evacuation took place and the country was faced with invasion. Prior to then there had been a period which had been termed, I think by the American media, as the 'phoney war', and we had gone on living with not much thought to the true state of affairs.

Phoney war

There had been a false air raid alarm a few minutes after Mr. Chamberlain, the then Prime Minister, had announced that we were at war with Germany on that Sunday morning in September, 1939. Otherwise, nothing to disturb the routine of life in the busy office I and some ten or more others occupied , engaged in invoicing the goods traffic which passed out of the depot daily.

An agreement was in force between the Company and the Union representing the Clerical staff, that all male clerks, on reaching the age of eighteen, would perform duties for a period of three years, working late shifts. I was only aware of the shifts 2 to 10pm and 4 to 12pm in existence then, but I was to become familiar with a later shift. Saturday was the exception. We all commenced at 2.00pm, and worked until finished, usually about 4 - 4.30pm depending on the volume of traffic.

We were aware of the war because of the military and naval traffic we invoiced, and over time became aware of the movements of naval vessels into and out of the ports that we dealt with. We were all warned that under no circumstances were we to talk about these. Periodically a member of staff would come to work and say that he had received his call-up papers and vanish. Despite these portents it was an unpleasant surprise when the sirens sounded that sunny afternoon in August announcing that the war was coming to London.

Hotting up

Our office was situated on the top floor, and curiosity sent us up on to the roof to see what was happening. Completely oblivious to the fact that the Depot was a legitimate military target for bombs, we stood there watching wave after wave of bombers - dropping their bombs on the dockside warehouses and buildings lining the river up to London Bridge. It was a scene which in hindsight was frightening, but I cannot honestly say that at the time I felt frightened. It was stupid, yes, to be standing there, but fascinating too.

The one thing that stayed most strongly in my memory was that it was like watching ranks of dragonflies flying in formation, as they moved toward their targets. So much so that, in later years when I retired and began writing, I used that very simile in a book. What made us realise the danger we were in I don't remember, probably we were moved away by the company's air raid warden. In a macabre sort of way, it was somehow a compelling sight, until one realised what the result of what we were witnessing meant to those unfortunate enough to be caught that August afternoon in the London Docks and surrounding streets. By the very nature of my working hours, when the 'blitz' really got going, life took on a very different aspect.

Daylight raids and night raids

During the daylight raids of the Battle of Britain, dogfights took place in that lovely summer of 1940, all over Kent and South London. Like many others, I watched the vapour trails far up in the blue skies and on one occasion was caught out in the open when a single bomb was dropped. As it was a residential area, I think it may have been jettisoned and I just happened to be in the wrong place. I do know that my immediate reaction was to get flat on my face in the gutter, hoping I wasn't going to get hurt. The noise as it came down was something akin to a train roaring through a station, but worse was the awful accompanying whistling that got nearer and nearer.

Then impact, and everything falling apart. I can't remember feeling relief that the bomb had fallen some distance away and I was dusty but not hurt .I probably did, but I do know that I didn't hang about.

After the daylight raids became spasmodic and the night raids started, we were given permission to start work at 6.00pm, as it was almost impossible to get home by public transport, and we were having to make ourselves as comfortable as possible for the night in the bowels of the depot. The lowest level, giving access on to City Road, Liverpool Street and Brick Lane, had been the stabling area when horses had been used to pull the delivery carts, but had become the repository for all the old records etc. They were stored in wooden racks in the various arches on which the depot was built, and it was possible to curl up in a rack and try to get some sleep.

Being young, we stayed awake for hours playing cards. Solo was the favourite. The canteen was open all night, so it was possible to get big china mugs of tea and something to eat if needed. To compensate for the unsociable hours we worked, we were granted one rest day every ten days, so it became a habit to save up a few then take a long weekend. I took advantage of this to get home now and then.

Lucky escape

On one such occasion I had travelled home on the Friday and back on the Monday evening - and it wasn't until I arrived at work on the Tuesday that I discovered just how lucky I had been. It had been reported on the wireless - as we called it then - that London had been bombed, but by this time this was almost routine and London was a big place - it could have been anywhere.

So I was quite unprepared when I arrived at work to discover the depot had received at least one direct hit. I was told that our sleeping area was no more. Apparently a bomb had penetrated the building via a disused lift shaft - right into the records area. There had been just one casualty, who had been taken to hospital with leg injuries, The racks had been demolished, and the area was completely unusable and cordoned off. Probably the lads had been playing cards in the next arch so had escaped. Those of us who had to stay until the 'all clear' and the tube trains or public transport restarted, transferred our card games and sleeping arrangements to the canteen.

Taking risks

I wasn't brave, but to excuse myself, I honestly believe that after weeks and weeks of nightly raids, one did get a bit blas茅 or maybe just too tired to care. I do remember that I did go to bed in my digs one night, after travelling from London Bridge by tram, so tired that the fact that there were flares hanging above the road where I lodged, couldn't keep me from climbing into my own bed in the house instead of going to the Anderson shelter in the garden. It may have been this attitude that persuaded one or two of us, several times, to risk the long walk from the depot, past Liverpool Street station and the Bank, along King William Street and down to London Bridge to catch one of the trams that still made the journey.

A lot depended on the ferocity of the raid, and if there were lulls. One couldn't have blamed the driver and conductor if they stayed put if they thought it was too dangerous. Thankfully, having transferred from one target area to another, they never did on the occasions I made the journey. I remember we used to pause at the City end of the bridge before making a quick dash across. Nobody wanted to get caught on the bridge itself if the bombs started falling again.

I felt a great admiration for the Fire Brigade and the Auxiliary Fire Service, as we passed through the City. I can still recall the scene of buildings ablaze and the tangle of hoses across the road, practically all punctured and spouting jets of water and we trying to save ourselves from tripping over them and trying not to get soaked. The firemen had no option but to stay there directing water at the ferocious fires, and they must have thought we were stupid. Perhaps we were, or maybe it was because we were young.

Staying alive

Goodness knows how many people went through the same experiences as I did, and I wonder how many became inured to the continuous nightly round of guns firing, bombs whistling down, recounting to each other the near misses and where the worst damage and deaths had occurred. Being in an Anderson shelter, counting the bombs falling as they got nearer and nearer, and to feel the whole shelter literally rise as number two hit a house maybe 10, 20 yards away, and then to lie there with eyes shut, curled up clutching the next person to you, knowing that number three was due any second, is terrifying.

In my case, it never arrived, but the debris did - and as the shelter was at the end of the garden, and the boundary wall was also the back wall of a row of galvanised steel roofed garages, one can imagine our shock when the remains of the house started landing on them! When we finally clambered out to inspect the damage, we found doors hanging off, windows blown out, furniture wrecked, but I'm sure the prevailing feeling was that being alive was the most important. It certainly placed material possessions in their proper place on the list of essentials.

Call-up, and lifelong lessons

When after another weekend away, I returned to find that an incendiary had come through my bedroom ceiling, burnt its way through the bed spring and mattress and into the floor beneath, I think this may have had something to do with my decision to volunteer for the Army and not wait for my call-up. I applied to join the Royal Army Ordnance Corps who were calling for volunteers.

I received a letter telling me to report on a particular day in January, and by the same post got another telling me to report to Aldershot on 1st January 1941, some days before, to join the Royal Army Service Corps. My call-up had arrived. I said goodbye to my landlady and I spent the next six years, four of them abroad, with that Corps. One thing I was grateful to the Army for. They gave me a steel helmet, something I often wished I had had during the nightly blitz.

There was to be no escaping the rules. When I returned to Bishopsgate in January 1947 I was told that I still had six months late shift to work, under the union agreement. This was the shift I didn't mention earlier and three of us, all having been in the forces for six years, spent the next six months working 8pm to 4am. Older and much wiser now, we made our own working arrangement. Once finished, only one of us stayed on, to look after the teletype machine, the other two went home. As no-one ever showed us how to work it, there was always a pile of ticker tape to greet the day shift operator.

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