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This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Judy Foweraker of Callington U3A on behalf of David Silverstone and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

David Silverstone. WW2 Memories. PART TW0

So, I was five when the war started, and twelve when it ended. The war meant for me half remembered impressions, snatches of memories, vague episodes. Not the sort of stuff historians can use as facts with chronologies.

The first memory was Dad digging a great pit in the garden for the Anderson shelter - into which I promptly fell! Getting me out was a major performance, before I got a good hiding. Anderson shelters were rarely used but the next development was the Morrison shelter 鈥� a steel-made structure erected in the home, shared by neighbours, which, during the blitz became a well-used refuge. I often slept with the girl next door!

At first Mum and Dad got involved with the ARP. All of a sudden they had lots of friends and I got to know many strangers. I got the impression I was a complication they could do well without. Certainly I remember being fostered out to people. In latter years when I asked questions about the ARP, I got evasions, denials and quick changes of subject; things were never explained to kids then. Belonging to the ARP seemed to provide scope for people to come together, outside the very strict morality of the time. Dad eventually joined the RAF as a fitter, and Mum and I followed him around his postings at airfields round the country. Cardiff and Wellington stand out in memory, but there were other places where we lived in digs. I was never actually evacuated, but I remember rustic village schools, bitterly cold and with disgusting outside toilets.

Somehow we got back to Chadwell Heath 鈥� just in time for the blitz 鈥� I shall never know how or why! I remember barrage balloons, which turned out to be useless but were great moral boosters. I remember the local ack-ack guns (fired by women) banging off, and the displayed bits of German aircraft on their perimeter fence as trophies of war. The searchlights and aerial dogfights were commonplace. One poor German baled out near us and was cut to pieces by neighbours who suddenly displayed a wide range of firearms. We really did believe invasion was immanent. The 鈥淒ads Army鈥� Home guard was definitely no joke in those years. ARPs rigidly enforced blackouts and everyone carried gas masks that stank of rubber.

But, above all, it was an exciting time for us kids. Our first thought after a raid, when the 鈥渁ll clear鈥� sounded, was what shrapnel we could find. Ownership of artefacts of war denoted status among us kids, and there was a brisk trade in 鈥渟wapses鈥�. I remember the V1 Doodle-bugs and later in the war the V2 rockets. One wrote off a school nearby and we played in the ruins, often finding bloody messes 鈥� what ghoulish little sods we were!

I remember thousands of military vehicles being parked in suburban back streets ready for 鈥淒鈥� day, and our first sight of Americans. 鈥淥versexed, overpaid and over here鈥� they were like aliens to us kids. We were fascinated by our first sight of blackmen, and of Italian and German prisoners of war, some staying after the war.

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