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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Katherine Kissane from WM CSV Action Desk on behalf of Frank Crewe, and has been added to the site with his permission. Frank Crewe fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Berlin, Friday

The German High Command communiqué today states:

‘On the night of December 11, a further attack by strong detachments of the German Luftwaffe took place. Violent explosions on the southern quarter of the town, hits on the railway and industrial plants, the explosion of gasworks, and large and persistent fires, as well as numerous small ones were observed.’

The Central Office of Information was responsible for publishing information on air raids and the damage details, but air raids on Birmingham were always referred to as a ‘West Midlands town’, and the details were minimal. Such was the blackout on security, but those who lived through the air raids of the latter end of 1940 will testify to the accuracy of the German High Command bulletins. They knew the target for their bombers and no amount of national security ‘camouflage’ could ‘black out’ the awful damage not only to buildings, but also the reduced morale which their bombers were causing.

My name is Frank Crewe, and I lived with my father and mother in a small terraced house — number 24 Alfred Street, Handsworth, Birmingham 21.

I was barely in my teens when we were bombed out of our home and our house. The community spirit that prevailed at the time was never rebuilt. Our house was on the southern side of the city, and I worked as a GPO telegraph messenger, delivering all kinds of telegrams — ‘nine words for sixpence’. Messages from ‘are you alright’, to others in code. Some were vital to their readers; others not so.

For some weeks towards the latter end on 1940, many ‘Brummies’ had not slept in their beds because of nightly bombing. Instead they had spent the entire nights in their gardens, entombed in their Anderson shelters. The walls would be running with condensation as they strove to keep interior light from betraying their presence to enemy bombers overhead, or the air raid wardens who would quickly tell them to, ‘put that light out!’ Their clothes would reek with the smell of paraffin used for heating, lighting and cooking.

As they tried to sleep, the bombers would drone overhead with their easily identifiable engines. The noise of the anti-aircraft guns from nearby ‘Hill Top’ batteries would open up as a bomber was momentarily held in searchlight, or barrage would deter their planes from flying too low. From time to time, the air would be punctuated by the unmistakable noise of the scream of a descending bomb, or the crash as it exploded and the shelters would rock. It was said — ‘through that din, then you must be deaf.’

On the night we were bombed out, the drone of the bombers flying overhead was the only intrusion, seeming to signal it was not ‘our night’. My mother had gone down the shelter. Dad was shaving in the house. Most men shaved at night. I was experimenting with my chemistry set. We had two budgerigars, twittering and flying in their cage. Suddenly, the birds fell silent. My father’s perception, (always acute), indicated that something had happened, or was about to happen.

‘Come on son. Down the shelter, quick!’ I was out through the back door and was the first to reach the shelter, quickly yelling to my mother — ‘open the door!’ As we scrambled in, there was a huge explosion which shook the shelter. Dust seemed to be everywhere, causing us to splutter and cough. We were all scared and momentarily froze with fright. Dad moved first, and removed the shelter door, but the explosion had blown the shed which was situated on the other side of the garden — our only exit. We were trapped!

May father was not powerfully built, but he had strong arms. He wrestled with trying to remove the obstacle which eventually yielded and he pushed it clear, allowing us to clamber out. We were all unbelievably calm, no panic. Looking up the garden toward the house, in the brilliant moonlight, we could see the devastation. The windows had been blown in; the slates had been torn from the roofs. It all looked sad and forlorn. It was eerily quiet. What had happened? Was it a bomb? Other houses were similarly affected, but what had happened to our neighbours? Were they injured, trapped in their shelters? Had they evacuated the street, leaving their homes?

Dad took control. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to our Jack’s.’ Jack and his family lived in Windmill Lane, Smethwick, about three quarters of an hours walk away. The raid was still in progress, but fewer planes seemed to be flying over. We acted like automatons. Our safety was our first concern.

As we walked over the broken glass that was glistening in the moonlight, we were aware of the others also fleeing. It was also becoming brighter, much brighter.

The gasometer used for storing gas had been hit and was well alight. A flame like a huge jet was ascending into the sky and we were walking towards it. Had it been ignited by an incendiary, or an oil bomb? Would it explode? No matter! We had to go past it to reach ‘our Jack’s.’ There seemed dozens of persons, all on the move. There was no panic, just silent persons seeking safety.

We all seemed to have our own priority as we trudged up Soho Street and into Windmill Lane. Up the entry we walked and lifted the latch on the door. They kept a good guard dog — we had to be careful. The dog was tied up. We were much relieved when a voice we recognised as ‘Uncle Jack’s’ asked, ‘who’s there?’

My mother spoke first. ‘It’s only us Jack. We’ve been bombed out.’ It was so matter of fact, rather like, ‘we’ve come to tea.’ We had reached safety. We only had what we stood up in, but we were together.

Dad went home the next day, alone. In barely hours, he was back to report. The police and the Home Guard were around, but it was clear our house had been looted. Nothing of value remained. ‘The neighbours seem to be alright. No deaths or injuries as far as I can tell. It’s a miracle. They like us seemed to have gone to live with their families.

For him, the greatest tragedy was the fate of our budgerigars. One was dead, and the other was flapping in pain. He had to be ‘put out of his misery’.

We still had our lives. They had given theirs to save us, when the land mine exploded!

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