大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Sheila Moorby and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

I was two years old when the war started, and eight years old when it finished, therefore my early years and memories were of rationing, gas masks, blackouts, and my Mother scanning the newspaper each day for information on the latest war news. I obviously could not remember pre-war times, so the war was the normal way of life, the fact that we would be wakened up in the night to be taken to a shelter, was really worrying for our parents, but because we didn't have any other memories of pre-war, it was just part of the routine.

My Mother's brother and two of her sisters were in the forces. Her brother John Jones was at Dunkirk; he was injured, he had shrapnel in his shoulder, and was evacuated. My Mother was very close to all her family, and corresponded with John every week. This is part a letter he wrote to his Mother:
"You most probably have heard that we had to make a run for it in Belgium. I have no idea how I got away for he was mowing us down like grass. When we first met the enemy, I was at Toneia(?), from there we went to Bovieres (?), Armentier, Lille, Guient (?), and on to Dunkirk about 91 miles fighting hand to hand all the way. Refugees were in one big mass in every street that had not been blown up. Old men, women, little kids from one year old to twelve, all trying to get anywhere so long as it was out of the way, then there was an aeroplane machine-gunning them in the back, hundreds lying on the ground dead and wounded, and no one time to give them a lift."

My everlasting memory of the war is the 31st July 1944. It was my Mother's Birthday, and we had been having a nice day with our parents. My grandmother lived in the same street as us, just two houses between hers and ours. It was sunny and we were in Grandma's house, the door was open and suddenly we could hear someone knocking on our door. My Father looked down the street and said "It's a telegram". My Mother said "I bet it's from John to say Happy Birthday". My Father called to the telegraph boy that we were in the other house and he brought it to my Mother. My Mother opened it, and the day changed from a happy birthday celebration to absolute devastation. The telegram was from John's wife to say that he was missing at sea. He was a Royal Artillery Gunner E. Lancs Division on a Merchant Navy ship bringing food from India to Britain. His ship was torpedoed in the Indian Ocean by the Japanese, and he was last seen on deck just before the vessel sank. He was twenty-five years old. John had married an Irish lady called Kathleen, and had a son called Ronnie. Their daughter Sylvia was born a month after the telegram.

My poor Mother and Grandmother had to cope with life after that. John was my Grandmother's youngest son. They didn't hear any more news. In 1945 when the war ended I remember a neighbour, who had a wireless, coming to tell my Grandmother that the war had ended. My Grandmother just wept.

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