大象传媒

Several months ago my sister asked if I would write down some of my memories of the war. We lived at 20 Cecil Avenue, Hornchurch Essex. After jotting down some of the more memorable events I asked my wife to read the script. After she read the notes she looked up at me with a wide eyed look and said "You were raised in a war zone." This was the very first time that I came to the full realization of just how horrific some of my childhood experiences must have been.

I remember things that went bump in the night; the blackout; being evacuated to Glasgow on a train filled with soldiers and airmen; my father holding me up on his shoulders to watch the aeroplanes take off and land at Hornchurch; dad's helmet and Home Guard uniform hanging in the hall closet; playing in the 鈥渂litz鈥� sites next door (several houses had be bombed out during the raids on Hornchurch airfield). The kids on the black collected shrapnel or the tin foil dropped by departing bombers. Adults were constantly after us not to pick up anything we found because of 鈥渂obby-traps.鈥�

The following event took place in 1944 as my sister was on the scene and we were both sick. I had whooping cough, and she had the measels. The ambulence came for me and I was taken to an isolation hospital. All went well for a few days, and I was due to be released the next day. That night I awoke with the sheets pulled tightly up over my head, as I reached out with my hand I felt broken glass. Pulling down the sheet I sat up and stared into a darkened room, I saw the outline of what was the front wall of my room in an isolation hospital. Close to my bed, a pillar of sandbags held up the ceiling. Through the remnants of the wall I could see flashes of light, and searchlight beams playing on a blackened sky. Acrid smoke and the sharp crack of anti-aircraft guns completed my awareness鈥� of the moment. Through the rubble came a man鈥檚 voice assuring me the 鈥溾�e care coming to get you nipper.鈥�

I could make out two voices, the man鈥檚 and a woman鈥檚 as well as the sounds of them stumbling over the debris as they made their way towards me in the pitch black. They entered what was left of my room and as the man picked me up there was a horrific roar that shook the entire place. Both the man and the woman almost smothered me with their bodies as I heard the sounds of yet more glass and brick flying around. My rescuers bundled me into a blanket and carried me to an underground air raid shelter where several nurses and children huddled together on bunks. I was placed on a bunk and my rescuers left.

In one corner a nurse cowered with a couple of children clutched about her whimpering and howling every time a bomb went off. This was the same nurse who, the previous night, had slapped my face and called me a 鈥�..dirty little rotter,鈥� for throwing up on her uniform. Another nurse sitting closer to me was comforting several children, and pointed out to them that 鈥淩on was not crying鈥� and that they should try and sleep. I did.

I awoke later the same night in a large darkened room filled with the shadows of men in beds. Through the windows I could see searchlights play on the night sky. Several men came over to my bed and dropped chocolate bars on the covers; they assured me that I was alright, I was a little soldier with my bandaged knees and fingers. I went back to sleep.

The next morning I was sitting outside the shelter staring across the grass playing field at the pile of rubble that has been the isolation hospital when a fireman strode out of the smoke, past the row of blanket covered stretchers and approached me with an outstretched hand. 鈥淲ere you in that building?鈥� He asked, 鈥淎re these things yours?鈥� In his hand he held my tiny red racing car, and my blue and maroon striped elastic belt with a snake head for a buckle. I thanked him and he tussled the hair on my head and strode off back into the still smoking rubble.

This was my introduction to the world outside of my home. The year was nineteen forty-four, the place was Romford Essex England and we lived in what became known as doodlebug (V1) alley. On two more occasions, my life was abruptly shaken by blasts form V2 rockets.

Whilst sitting down to lunch in our home all of the plaster fell from the ceiling, and all of the windows shattered and my mother and baby sister were covered with dust and debris. We slept in the Morrison shelter for the rest of the war.

I still have no memory of the last occasion that I had a run in with a V2. I remember being at school playing with the rest of the kids on the playground. There was a blast, a shower of glass and dirt. Teachers were huddling us into the side of the building. Many of the kids were crying; cut by flying debris. Just as the night in the hospital shelter I went through both incidents feeling nothing, I just sat and observed. If I remember right some of the children and teachers were killed. The fire brigade came and the ambulances carried away some people. This was the end of school until the war ended.

Hornchurch airdrome was not far away and ours days were constantly harassed by aircraft taking off or landing. I can still remember the sound and sight of several Spitfires taking off low over Cecil Avenue; later in the war I sat in the garden and watched the high flying Tempests diving on V1 flying bombs.

My early childhood was marked by petty theft, and some rather bizarre behaviour. Because there was no warning of the rocket attacks, I spent most of my time in or near the outdoor Anderson shelter. One day I was resting in the shelter and I set fire to the newspapers papers that were placed on the concrete floor to sop up the dampness. This time my father rushed through the flames and rescued me.

When the war ended, I was sent to Sunday school and one day in the hushed gloom of the classroom, I gave my heart to Jesus. This was the first time I felt a sense of warmth and joy in my heart. When I told my parents at the supper table they took little interest; soon the feeling wore off and I was as numb as usual.

I recall the night that the street lights came on for the first time---I had never seen street lights. We took down the blackout curtains. We could now see the wourled through the distortion of wartime glass. The corner store had candy, and the greengrocer had oranges and bananas. We all went to the beaches at Southend and played between the tank traps and barb wire. Later we had a holiday for a week at Margate. In 1949 we came to Canada, and I though that the memories of the bombing were behind me, or so I was told.

It is only lately that I have started to deal with the disassociate disorder that has plagued me all of my life. When I watch (reluctantly) the news of bombings and war on TV I watch for the children, the ones with the blank faces and vacant look in their eyes.

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