大象传媒

It was Saturday September 7th 1940, and a glorious late summer鈥檚 day. It would be untrue for me to say I remember it as if it were yesterday, and yet when I think about it, the whole picture comes vividly to mind.

It was twelve years of age, and on that afternoon my friend and I were building a model crane with a Meccanno set in the front room of our house. That model would remain unfinished at. At about 3 pm we heard the wail of the siren announcing an air raid.

The sound had hardly died away before we heard the distant rumble of anti-aircraft gunfire, accompanied by the drone of a large number of aircraft. Although we didn鈥檛 realise it at that moment, we were on the threshold of a new and terrifying era, and the East End would never be the same again. It was the beginning of a period which would eventually claim the lives of more than 1200 West Ham citizens, among them some of my school friends and also some of our neighbours.

My friend mad a rapid departure across the street, while my parents, three sisters and I went to the Anderson shelter in the back garden.

The gunfire and sound of enemy aircraft came nearer until it was right overhead. We huddled together in the shelter. Then came the sound of falling bombs. Some sounded like a whistling effect; others made a sound like ballast being tipped from a lorry, followed in each case by a tremendous explosion.

As each bomb fell, we crouched, shielding our heads with our arms 鈥� a reflex action I鈥檓 sure. It was terrifying; mere words can never adequately describe the experience. As the bombs rained down we thought our end had come.

Someone said to us later that you never hear the bomb that鈥檚 got your number on it. (I wonder how he knew that!)

The drone of aircraft overhead was constant, as was the sound of the anti-aircraft guns: the nearest of these were based in West Ham Park. Shrapnel from the bursting shells was falling everywhere. We could hear it crashing on the roofs of houses. We could hear the ringing of bells as fire engines dashed to blazing buildings. Outside it was a warm day, but the heat from the immense fires burning in the vicinity sent the temperature soaring.

Inside the Anderson shelter it was unbearably hot. We were also sweating in fear. Finally, after more than three hours of terror, the noise of aircraft died away to be followed by the sound of the all clear.

We climbed out of the shelter and looked around in disbelief. The sky was glowing red like a spectacular sunset except that it was all around us in every direction. The red glow was interspersed with black smoke and sparks, and a sickly smell of burning prevailed in the air. My mother boiled kettles of water on her electric cooker for neighbours who were without gas because a main had been hit.

I walked across the street to see my friends, and during the lull we went out sightseeing. We walked to the end of our road and into West Ham Lane. The Kinema picture theatre had been hit but mercifully it had been closed at the time.

In Abbey Road, Crocketts leathercloth factory was ablaze and the road was cordoned off. Debris littered the road and pavements and we were not allowed to proceed any further. As we walked up West Ham Lane towards Stratford Broadway we saw much evidence of the raid.

A bomb had fallen on the Conference Hall, another had landed just round the corner in Widdin Street, and to our horror we saw that another had hit part of Queen Mary鈥檚 Hospital in Bryant Street. Here, rescue workers were toiling in the wreckage, assisted by firemen and soldiers of the Pioneer Corps. A further bomb had fallen in Victoria Street, and everywhere we were walking on broken glass and rubble. Shopkeepers were busily boarding up their windows. And abandoned trolleybus stood at its terminus in Tramway Avenue, its windows shattered. We made our way home to where our anxious parents were waiting for us. As soon as dusk fell, the air raid warning sounded again, and although it was night time, the glow in the sky created an illusion of daylight.

The worst of the fires were in the southern end of the Borough, in the dock areas of Silvertown, Custom House, North Woolwich, Tidal Basin and Canning Town.

My mother had taken the precaution of preparing flasks of tea and sandwiches, and it was a good thing she did, as we were to be confined to the shelter until 6 am the following morning.

All night long the incessant attack continued. There were times when we thought we would never survive the night. When there was a slight lull, or when the activity was not directly overheard, one of us would dash to the toilet.

It was a long night and none of us slept a wink. Many people died in the streets all around us that night. I learned later that in one horrific incident an entire family of five had been killed in Manor Road, one of whom was Arthur Long, a fellow pupil at my Sunday School. He was aged 12.

On the following morning 鈥� Sunday 8th September 鈥� there was a mass exodus from the capital as people scrambled to get away.

That same afternoon, I went to my Sunday School as usual. Only about 10 children were present out of a normal attendance of more than 60. Our teacher had no news of the absentee children but she thought that in the circumstances most of them would have left for a safer area. We hadn鈥檛 at that stage heard the sad news about Arthur and his family. The lesson that day was short, followed by a simple prayer. The atmosphere had been sombre and our usually garrulous voices subdued.

We san our usual closing hymn, 鈥淕rant us Thy Peace as on our Homeward Way鈥�. We then disbanded and went our respective ways to an uncertain future. For us the real war had now begun and life would never be the same again.

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