大象传媒

I was 24 years old when overnight my life changed forever. A so-called Doodlebug landed on my home, destroying everything that I owned and uprooting the Anderson Shelter in which I had taken refuge with my dog, Trixie. Blind, deaf and with multiple injuries I was taken to the nearest emergency centre. Trixie was dead, mercifully still curled around as though asleep.

At the emergency centre I was transferred to a plastic surgery unit in Hill End Hospital, St Albans where a medical team not only saved my life but my very reason for I had horrific facial injuries.

I well remember going through that long, dark tunnel that near-death experiences people talk about as well as the time when I partially regained my sight and hearing to find myself in an overcrowded ward where casualties were coming in daily.

The ward was run by an efficient, but very compassionate Sister Russell. There was to be no cluttered lockers, no sitting on beds, visitors were only allowed in two at a time. Against that exterior, she insisted on accompanying every one of her patients when they went down for an operation and that small, square hand on the stretcher by your head somehow gave you confidence that all would be well.

Plastic surgery cannot be hurried and as the weeks in that ward turned into months, it became my second home snd the other patient around me a surragate family.

There was Kitty in the next bed to me who had been in a bus when a bomb exploded nearby and shattered the glass causing her to lose an eye amongst other injuries. There was the young housewife who had been blinded but cared only that the baby she carried inside her still stirred. We all shared heath others joys and sorrows, forming a bond of sympathy when a husband or boyfriend failed to turn up at visiting time, unable to cope with the altered appearance of their partner.

Somehow thought, we all found some little incident to laugh at. There was laughter when I threatened to shoot the first cow I saw when leaving hospital. Having had my fractured jaw in clamps for weeks on end, and been on a daily diet of milk, Horlicks or Ovaltine through a straw.

During those early days those near and dear to me were terrific, often travelling miles and through air raids to visit me.

When it was decided that I needed some respite before more surgery I was sent to Huntingdon Castle for a fortnight. A castle which had been taken over by the Red Cross during the war years as a convalescent home.

When I first set eyes on Huntingdon Castle the grounds were covered in a carpet of gold and russet leaves. I entered into a nice hallway with five other patients to be welcomed by a blazing log fire with a huge St Bernard dog, head on paws, fast asleep in front of it. The dog didn't even stir at our arrival.

After a medical assessment I was shown to a large downstairs room where ancestral portraits hung from the lofty walls, seeming to look down with some distain at the rows of single beds now flanking what must have once been an elegent drawing room.

That first night was long and miserable. That day I had entered again into the real world and found it hard to accept the way people looked at my scarred face. Was it pity or horror? I missed the comradship and understanding I had had in FGI Ward.

After a few days downstairs I was moved to the top floor of the castle to share a cell like room with another young girl. We discovered that in another room further down the narrow passageway an Irish lady was telling fortunes at 1s 6d per time. However, it had to be after "Lights Out". So one evening we crept down the darkened passageway to have our fortunes told. I don't know what I was scared of most, of being caught by the night staff or of coming face to face with the ghost of the nun who was said to haunt that particular wing.

Our mornings ere spent in having dressings done or other medical problems looked at. After lunch the rest of our day was spent in rest and relaxation. I was now mixing with a wider range of the casualties of war. The young Merchant Navy lad who had been adrift on the open seas when his shop had been torpedoed. It had affected him mentally. There was fifteen year old Doreen who had lost both parents. Those with far worse problems that mine.

There was plenty of time to think and I found myself doing a little self-analysis. Those around me were accepting me for who I was, not what I looked like. By listening to their troubles I could forget for a while my own. My movements were still restricted and I was finding it difficult to cope with my limited sight and due to having lost one ear, my hearing impairment, but looking back I wasn't terribly upset at having lost all my wordly goods I missed dreadfully the love and faithfulness I had got from my dog Trixir. I decided eventually that whatever the future brought I was going to have to make the best of it.

Over the years it has occurred to me that a lot is spoken and documented about the bravery and sacrifices made by the Armed Forces. The Army, Navy and Airforce, and quite rightly too. However, we must not forget the part played in those traumatic days by the unarmed forces. The ARP Wardens who continued rescuing bombed out victims despite enemy aircraft still droning overhead. Or forget the ordinary man or woman in the street who were uprooted from their norml way of life to work on the land or in factories. Then there were the victims of the Blitz, so many that I met. They too were there. I know because I've still got the scars to prove it.

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