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By 1941 my Aunt Ethel — my father’s sister —and Uncle Victor had had a horrible war. One of their two sons was killed in the first air raid on Erith in Kent when a bomb went down an air raid shelter and they themselves were bombed out of their house in Teddington, Middlesex, so they came to live with us in Surbiton, Surrey.

Uncle Victor, who was about 60, became an Air Raid Warden. However, if the raid came at night he was very slow to get out and down to the ARP post. So they told him to stay in his own road and watch for firebombs. He used to get pretty tired, so my father lent him a folding fishing or camping stool.

One evening, we saw Uncle Victor totter out in his tin hat with his rattle (in case of gas!) his torch, whistle and rain coat — and his stool. Never the most technical chap, he set up the stool and sat down on it, where upon it collapsed because he hadn’t put it up properly. Down he went, with his fingers trapped beneath him, so he was unable to get up. The language was terrible!

Eventually he rolled over and staggered to the house to do something about his bruised and bleeding fingers — only to find that he had locked himself out. So we dashed down stairs and brought him in to be bandaged. Later, he went out again, gathered up his gear and resumed his duty but this time we set the stool up for him.

This story was submitted to the People’s War website by John Boileau, volunteer of the CSV Action Desk at ´óÏó´«Ã½ Hereford and Worcester. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

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