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I was three years old when the war broke out and didn’t understand my parents when they talked of the darkness without the street lights in Burgh-Le-Marsh where we lived. Later on as I grew older I began to realise what terrible times we were living in.

The army took over many of the new empty house for the forces, food was on ration the air raid warden patrolled the county watching out for light showing from windows. Dark curtains or blackouts were the order of the day.

My father was in the home guard, he went on parole each Sunday morning plus many nights in the week. My mother knitted hats, socks, gloves etc for the service men, whilst also caring for my 2 small brothers (John and Brian) and myself. As the years passed and things got worse my parents took in two evacuee boys from Grimsby, they lived as the family, and went to Burgh school with us, each carrying packed lunches plus a gas mask each.

One Saturday Dad stayed behind with the two evacuees and younger brother, while mother took myself and brother John into Skegness for new shoes. The shoes were purchased, and we were waiting for the bus home, when the bombs started dropping. Mother pushed both us children under the waiting room seat. Later after the all clear was given one shoe was missing (never found)!

The windows were blown out of the bus and the Tower picture house was ablaze — a very worried father met us at the bus stop.

When I was seven years old my father got his calling up papers for the army. He had just 2 weeks notice before enlistment, during which time the evacuees had to return home and we moved house to be near to my mother’s parents at Bonthorpe, nr Alford.

My grandmother was very goof at managing her meagre rations, her and grandfather had 2 young sons (just left school) also a daughter not quite 14 years of age, all living at home in 2 bedroom farm cottage.

The two pigs they fatten up kept us all in meat for the year and the garden kept us in vegetables. Mother and my grandmother were always were always salting and preserving the surplus ready for when the garden in the winter months was not producing anything. They made all the old sheets into pillow cases, tea cloths also dusters (all made by hands sewing machine needles were unobtainable in very cold weather, with ice cream on the windows it was coats on the beds and socks on the feet, a hot water bottle if you were lucky, but rubber was scarce and these were very hard to get we had one and it was for anyone feeling under the weather.

We had new gloves made from socks, that had gone past repair. My jumpers would have made even Joseph jealous for they were knitted from any oddments of wool that was available irrespective of colour or ply.

In the meantime mother helped on the local farm often working long hard hours and coming home weary to three demanding children. One morning the letter arrived that all soldiers wives dread. My father was missing presumed killed in action, he was a stretcher bearer in the Lincolnshire Regiment.

I remember that day sitting on the wooden toilet seat crying. I thought my heart would break. How could Hitler do this to us?

Later on that week a postman arrived with better news, my father was wounded and had been flown back to England, but it was unknown where to. As the days progressed we heard from Dad himself, he was indeed back in England with a badly wounded knee. It took many many months for his leg to heal but the joy of having him on English soil again. He was unable to go to the front line again, but was demobbed 18 months after peace was declared.

He came home with his army clothes, a lounge suit, suit, shirt, hat, socks, shoes, which was to help the service men get a new start in civilian life.

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