大象传媒

This account of my wartime experiences was created for a project that our grandson was working on at school. If it appears simplistic, or seems to explain the obvious, please remember that it was written for 8-9 year olds.
GRANDDAD IN THE WAR

When the 2nd World War broke out on 3rd September 1939, we had already been expecting it. Blackout curtains had been made to cover all our windows. Schools had been closed, and efforts were being made to educate children in their homes. (I suppose the authorities thought schools would be a prime target for bombers). Our mother agreed to allow lessons to be held in our house, and several of our friends came round to be taught. From what I remember, the class only lasted about an hour, as the teacher needed to work her way round the neighbourhood. (My class report at that time showed that I was in a class of 52 children).
My brother Ken and I didn't have many of these lessons, as on the 3rd September we were evacuated. My mother packed our clothes etc into parcels, and took us up to Wimbledon Station to be put on a train. We had luggage labels tied to our lapels, with our details on, so that we wouldn't go astray. Ken was just coming up to his 9th birthday, and I was 6. To us it was all a big adventure, a bit worrying because our parents weren't coming, but exciting as well. To our parents it was probably a nightmare.
We ended up in Fishbourne, a little village just outside Chichester. The "seaside" (Chichester Harbour), was just down the lane, and there were fields behind the house we were staying in. All this was a new world to two little lads from London. We stayed with Mrs Tomkins, who had no children of her own. She was married to a sergeant in the RAF, who was stationed at Tangmere, a Spitfire station just a few miles down the road. Although he was so close, we didn't see him very often. The war was probably getting in the way. Meanwhile, my mother and my three year old brother Terry were evacuated to a farm near Salisbury. My father couldn't go, as by now he was serving full-time in the National Fire Service (NFS), and his services were required in London. The country life doesn't seem to have suited my mother, as they returned to London after a few months.
The war started in earnest in what seemed a very short time. Just across Chichester Harbour was Portsmouth, a prime target for the enemy. Most evenings we watched tracer bullets arcing through the sky above Portsmouth, as the ground forces tried to drive off the enemy planes. Quite often there were dogfights between Spitfires and German aircraft, with planes being shot down. I remember the local Home Guard racing down the lane beside our house to apprehend a German pilot that had baled out. They marched him back triumphantly, but he didn't look much of a catch. He was limping, and looked very crestfallen. We didn't know it at the time, but we were spectators at the Battle of Britain.
Of course, we used to mention all this in our letters home, which obviously worried our parents. Especially the bit about digging machine gun bullets out of the wall of the house, where a plane's rounds had overshot. By the latter part of 1940 we were back in Wimbledon - just in time for the blitz.
Life for children during the War was not as terrifying as might be imagined. There were worrying moments, like when bombs first started to fall, enemy aircraft were flying overhead, and anti-aircraft guns were firing. But most of this happened at night, when we were in shelters, so we could ignore it. When the Blitz first started we used the public shelters that had been built in our local recreation ground. These were basically a slit trench lined with concrete, with a concrete roof, and then the excavated earth piled on top. There was a ramp each end for access. The furniture consisted of a wooden bench running down each side if the tunnel. I think there was electric light, but I can't be sure. As there wasn't room for everyone to stretch out on these benches to sleep, half of the occupants slept on the floor under the benches - which was a little tricky as a drainage gully ran down each side, at the bottom of the wall. One morning I woke up and found I was sleeping under the bench, when I could have sworn I started out the previous night on the bench. All became clear as we left the shelter, and had to edge our way round a bomb crater that had all but removed the entrance ramp. It must have been quite chaotic during the night, but I hadn't woken. The following night we started using a concrete surface shelter built in the grounds of a laundry. It was much further away, at least a mile walk, which we did every night for at least two years, with our bedding piled on an old pram. But it was a much better shelter. It was built on the surface, and was much better equipped, with bunk beds, chairs and a couple of tables. We were much more comfortable there.
The blackout was obviously a great nuisance to adults, with no streetlights, blackout curtains at all windows, car headlights hooded, etc., but it was quite magical for children. In the Winter months we could get up to all sorts of pranks without being spotted. It was different in the Summer, as it stayed light until well after our bedtime - the government had introduced Double British Summertime, so that the clocks were moved on an hour in early Spring and again in early Summer. We didn't really notice the shortages - working class people never had a lot anyway, and wartime rationing and controlled prices gave us a good chance to get our share. Bomb damaged houses that were still standing made ideal dens and adventure playgrounds for children. Broken slates from roofs could easily be shaped into tomahawk heads and tied to sticks to make games of cowboys and Indians more realistic. I can't remember anyone being damaged with these weapons, although one of our friends lost an eye to a badly aimed home-made arrow. The usual round of childrens' games were played - Tin Can Copperman, marbles, whip-and-tops, hide-and-seek and so on. Collecting shrapnel was a widespread hobby, with some items having more kudos than others. (Shrapnel was the broken pieces of bombs and shells that were created after the bomb or shell exploded). Shell nose cones and bomb steering fins were much more highly prized than just anonymous lumps of jagged steel.
We acquired a shell nose cone in quite a dramatic manner, and lost it even more dramatically. My mother, brothers and I were all sitting in the kitchen one evening in February 1994. The Blitz was now mainly a thing of the past, with only occasional raids from a much depleted Luftwaffe (the German Airforce), so we no longer did the nightly trek to the shelter. There was a raid in progress, with searchlights sweeping the sky and the anti-aircraft guns firing. We pretended to ignore the goings-on outside, but ready to hide under the kitchen table if things got serious. Suddenly there was a large thud from the other side of the door to the scullery, and plaster dust drifted in under the door. When we looked into the scullery there was a hole through the lean-to roof, and a nose cone lay on the floor. I think my mother was worried, although she hid it well, but we boys were agog with the "treasure" that had arrived through the ceiling. This was going to bring endless admiration in the playground the following day! Little did we know.....
Ken and I shared the back bedroom, and Terry slept in the front with our parents - although that night our father was on duty at the Fire station. At 4 o'clock the following morning Ken and I were woken by a most ferocious aerial battle going on above us. We got up and looked out of the window, and saw searchlights criss-crossing the sky, and lines of tracer shells going heavenwards. Then there was a dreadful howling noise, getting louder. Frightened, we turned to dive back into our bed when there was a huge explosion and the bed disappeared under falling bricks. Mum was calling out to us, to see if we were OK, but it was a couple of moments before we could clear our mouths of plaster dust and say we were fine. We found out later that the noise had woken her, and she had grabbed Terry and stood against the chimney breast. When the bomb went off, the house and the roof collapsed, and mum was standing with the roof fitted round her, inside the gap in the roof to take the chimney breast. She was able to get through to us in the remains of the back bedroom. We all climbed out of our bedroom window, (which had gone), and into our back yard, as the bedroom was now at ground floor level. We scrambled over our back fence into what had been the alley to the builders yard next door, over a roof that was now lying in it, then across to Nanny's house, just the other side of the road.
We found out later that the bomber that blew us up was piloted by an Italian, on a lone mission to bomb London. When he found himself caught in the searchlights he decided to jettison his bombs and flee back to the continent. He was shot down though
Dado (our grandfather) was in a very grumpy mood from such a rude awakening, but soon realised the situation and took us indoors. Although their house was still standing, it had been well shaken, the water main was fractured and leaking into the coal cellar, and the gas wasn't functioning. We sat on their sofa until about 7.30 in the morning just as it was getting light. The ARP (Air Raid Precautions, local volunteers who helped rescue people from bombed buildings) thought we were still buried in the rubble of our house, and were ready to start digging for us. When our father arrived home he was horrified by the sight of the pile of rubble and the ARP wardens trying to dig us out, and dashed across to see if Nanny and Dado were all right. The relief on his face was indescribable.
We were then taken by ambulance to a reception centre - a local hall that had been converted to be able to look after people who had been bombed out. It had camp beds for sleeping, a large pile of clothing for people to find something to wear, and a first-aid nurse to see to any minor injuries. After finding some clothes and having something to eat and drink, we had our cuts and knocks seen to by the First-Aid nurse, then my Mother, one of my brothers (I can't remember which) and I were taken to our local hospital for X-rays and a check-over by the doctor. After our treatment Mum had to see the Lady Almoner at the hospital. She was the person who decided whether patients had to pay for their treatment, or could have it free under their charity scheme. No National Health Service then! We were treated free, as my mother had no money at all - her handbag was buried under the house. We had to take the bus back to the reception centre, and fortunately the bus conductor took pity on us when he heard Mum's tearful story, and let us travel free.
The council put us all in temporary furnished accommodation to start with. Despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe there were quite a few houses around they could use - the occupants had fled to safer areas for the duration of the war. After a couple of weeks we were moved to a permanent rented house that the Council had requisitioned. They also gave my parents a few pounds to buy clothes and furniture, as we had nothing. After the war my parents finally got compensation to replace all we had lost.
Our new house was not as nice as the one we lost, but it had the advantage of not one but two Air Raid shelters. In the back garden was an Anderson shelter. This was made from large sheets of corrugated steel, with the tops curved over. These were set in a large hole in the garden, with the top half of the steel sheets sticking above the surface, and with the curved ends of the steel sheets meeting to form a roof. Other straight sheets were fitted at each end to form the front and back, and then all the earth from the hole was piled over the shelter. The front sheets had one panel omitted to form a doorway, but there was no door. Some people built a "blast wall" about two feet in front of the doorway, to shield the people inside. If the householder who built the shelter was good at building he would put in a concrete floor, and even concrete sides. These shelters were safe from anything but a direct hit, but were permanently damp, and very cold in the winter. People only went in them when the Air-Raid warning siren sounded.
Inside the house was a Morrison shelter. This took the form of a large, strong, steel table, with steel mesh panels round the sides. If there was an air raid the occupants would hide under the table. Even if the house was bombed the shelter would support the weight of the falling debris, and would keep the occupants safe until the ARP could dig them out. This was a lot more convenient. Our parents made a bed up under the table where my brothers and I slept. They slept on the top where they put the bedsprings and mattress from their bed. If there was a raid they would scramble underneath with us.
Our house was at the end of a terrace, with space alongside for another house. On this space was built a public surface shelter, a little like the one we used in the early part of the war, only smaller. We very seldom used that, preferring our shelter in the front room.
Not long after this, because of the threat from the V1's and V2's (see below), our parents decided to take up another offer of evacuation for children. This time all three of us were sent to Huddersfield in Yorkshire, where we stayed for 6 months. It was a different world up there - they had hardly seen anything of the war, just the occasional sight of German planes heading for Liverpool or Manchester. They were some of the kindest people that I've met, really putting themselves out to help us "Cockney" kids from War-torn London. But our parents were starting to miss us, and so, towards the end of 1944, my father came up by train to bring us all back to London. The blitz was now well and truly over.
Although the Luftwaffe had been destroyed, Hitler still had a couple of secret weapons up his sleeve. The first was the V1, nicknamed by the British as the "Buzz bomb", from the noise it made. It was a small unpiloted plane, powered by a crude jet engine, and loaded with high explosives. It would be launched from occupied France, and was steered to England by a radio beam. When it ran out of fuel its engine stopped, and it went into a steep glide until it crashed. The first of the V1's worried us at first, but we soon got used to them. The would fly over us with their engines going "putter-putter". All the time we could hear that we knew we were safe. As soon as the engine stopped, everyone would dive for cover behind walls, trees etc., and wait for the bang. We children got so used to them that if the engine cut as one passed overhead we would argue where it would land, and chase after it on our bikes to see.
There were several ways that the British forces dealt with them. The first line of defence were anti-aircraft guns along the south coast. They would fire at the V1's, but had trouble hitting them as V1's flew faster than any other planes they had shot at. The second line of defence were our fighter planes. Because the V1's were one of the first planes with a jet engine they were faster than most of the allied planes in level flight, but some of our fighters could catch up with them if the spotted them below and could dive on them. They had to be very careful when shooting them down, as the V1's exploded with great force, and would blow up any allied plane that had got too close. When we got our first jet fighters flying (the Meteor and the Vampire) they could outpace the V1's and catch them up. One of their tricks was to fly close alongside and get their wing tip under the V1's wing tip. With a little tweak they would get the buzz bomb to turn round and head back along its radio beam to France. Unfortunately, the Germans worked out what was happening and fixed "proximity" fuses under the wing tips. If one of our planes tried to put its wing tip under the other wing tip the fuse would explode the V1. So we went back to shooting them down.
A cunning scheme worked out by our scientists was to "bend" the radio beam that the buzz bomb was flying along, just by a few degrees, so that instead of coming down on London it came down in fields in East Anglia, where there were far fewer people to hurt.
Once we had got used to the buzz bombs, Hitler launched his second secret weapon - the V2. Ther were no nicknames for this - it was too serious to joke about. The V2 was the first rocket based missile, large enough to cross from France and Holland to England, packed with high explosives. It was a very simple weapon, stand it on a launch pad pointing towards England and ignite the rocket motor. It would take off into the air, and fly up into the stratosphere. When it ran out of fuel it turned over and dived back to earth. If the Germans had aimed it correctly it would land on London. Because the rocket motor had stopped, and it was flying faster then the speed of sound, there was no warning sound until it exploded. Also there was no defence against it. When the allies invaded German occupied Europe one of their first priorities was to find and destroy the launching sites and the factories where they were made.
Once the invasion got under way the war didn't affect the people at home so directly, except that we still had rationing. Before the war much of our food came from abroad - wheat from Canada, tea from India, fruit from the continent, beef from Argentina etc. Once the war started it was far more difficult to bring merchant ships to Britian, as the German ships and submarines were at large on the oceans. So the government decided on two strategies - produce more home-grown food, and ration the amount each person could have. As most able-bodied men were in the armed forces, women were drafted into farm work. They joined what was called "The Land Army". Even city girls soon started being useful on farms, milking cows, driving tractors, harvesting etc. All spare land was ploughed up to start growing crops on. Allotments for people to grow their own vegetables were created in public parks, derelict plots of land, the gardens of houses destroyed by bombs, and so on. One of the big slogans of the war was "Dig for Victory". Pig clubs were formed, with groups of people coming together to rear pigs in back gardens and behind workplaces. Pigs will eat just about anything, so "swill bins" were place in every street for people to put in old cabbage leaves, potato peelings and anything else edible enough for pigs. This was distributed to pig clubs. When the pigs were big enough they were slaughtered and butchered, and the meat distributed among the club members. However, in return for getting the bins of pig swill, the club members had their Government meat ration reduced.
I don't remember the precise details of the ration allowance, but I do remember it was quite meagre. There was one egg a week, I think two ounces of butter and four ounces of margarine, and about one and tuppence worth of meat. That's about 6p in modern money. Because it was rationed by price instead of weight, it meant you got more meat if you chose the cheaper cuts. We used to have a lot of stews, but then we had done that before the war anyway, as most working people did. Sweets were rationed, but many adults gave up their ration to their children. Milk was not rationed, and bread was unrationed until after the war, for some reason. Clothes were rationed, and styles had to be very plain, to save on material and manufacturing time. All younger children wore "hand-me-downs", which was unfortunate for one of my school friends, as he only had an older sister. But no-one teased him when he wore dresses to school: we all knew the circumstances, and anyway he was a tough little kid who you teased at your peril.
The war finally ended in 1945, first the war in Europe, and then the war in Asia against Japan. Both events were celebrated with gusto, with bonfires, street parties, and games and entertainments. In our street the bonfire was actually built in the middle of the street. It was so big and hot that the fence opposite it started smouldering, and the owner had to keep throwing water over it to stop it bursting into flames. Next day when we cleared away the ashes we found a large hole burnt into the road surface.
Rationing stayed with us for a few more years, until the country had repaid some of its overseas debts and could start to allow large scale imports of food again.

20th September 2002This account of my wartime experiences was created for a project that our grandson was working on at school. If it appears simplistic, or seems to explain the obvious, please remember that it was written for 8-9 year olds.
GRANDDAD IN THE WAR

When the 2nd World War broke out on 3rd September 1939, we had already been expecting it. Blackout curtains had been made to cover all our windows. Schools had been closed, and efforts were being made to educate children in their homes. (I suppose the authorities thought schools would be a prime target for bombers). Our mother agreed to allow lessons to be held in our house, and several of our friends came round to be taught. From what I remember, the class only lasted about an hour, as the teacher needed to work her way round the neighbourhood. (My class report at that time showed that I was in a class of 52 children).
My brother Ken and I didn't have many of these lessons, as on the 3rd September we were evacuated. My mother packed our clothes etc into parcels, and took us up to Wimbledon Station to be put on a train. We had luggage labels tied to our lapels, with our details on, so that we wouldn't go astray. Ken was just coming up to his 9th birthday, and I was 6. To us it was all a big adventure, a bit worrying because our parents weren't coming, but exciting as well. To our parents it was probably a nightmare.
We ended up in Fishbourne, a little village just outside Chichester. The "seaside" (Chichester Harbour), was just down the lane, and there were fields behind the house we were staying in. All this was a new world to two little lads from London. We stayed with Mrs Tomkins, who had no children of her own. She was married to a sergeant in the RAF, who was stationed at Tangmere, a Spitfire station just a few miles down the road. Although he was so close, we didn't see him very often. The war was probably getting in the way. Meanwhile, my mother and my three year old brother Terry were evacuated to a farm near Salisbury. My father couldn't go, as by now he was serving full-time in the National Fire Service (NFS), and his services were required in London. The country life doesn't seem to have suited my mother, as they returned to London after a few months.
The war started in earnest in what seemed a very short time. Just across Chichester Harbour was Portsmouth, a prime target for the enemy. Most evenings we watched tracer bullets arcing through the sky above Portsmouth, as the ground forces tried to drive off the enemy planes. Quite often there were dogfights between Spitfires and German aircraft, with planes being shot down. I remember the local Home Guard racing down the lane beside our house to apprehend a German pilot that had baled out. They marched him back triumphantly, but he didn't look much of a catch. He was limping, and looked very crestfallen. We didn't know it at the time, but we were spectators at the Battle of Britain.
Of course, we used to mention all this in our letters home, which obviously worried our parents. Especially the bit about digging machine gun bullets out of the wall of the house, where a plane's rounds had overshot. By the latter part of 1940 we were back in Wimbledon - just in time for the blitz.
Life for children during the War was not as terrifying as might be imagined. There were worrying moments, like when bombs first started to fall, enemy aircraft were flying overhead, and anti-aircraft guns were firing. But most of this happened at night, when we were in shelters, so we could ignore it. When the Blitz first started we used the public shelters that had been built in our local recreation ground. These were basically a slit trench lined with concrete, with a concrete roof, and then the excavated earth piled on top. There was a ramp each end for access. The furniture consisted of a wooden bench running down each side if the tunnel. I think there was electric light, but I can't be sure. As there wasn't room for everyone to stretch out on these benches to sleep, half of the occupants slept on the floor under the benches - which was a little tricky as a drainage gully ran down each side, at the bottom of the wall. One morning I woke up and found I was sleeping under the bench, when I could have sworn I started out the previous night on the bench. All became clear as we left the shelter, and had to edge our way round a bomb crater that had all but removed the entrance ramp. It must have been quite chaotic during the night, but I hadn't woken. The following night we started using a concrete surface shelter built in the grounds of a laundry. It was much further away, at least a mile walk, which we did every night for at least two years, with our bedding piled on an old pram. But it was a much better shelter. It was built on the surface, and was much better equipped, with bunk beds, chairs and a couple of tables. We were much more comfortable there.
The blackout was obviously a great nuisance to adults, with no streetlights, blackout curtains at all windows, car headlights hooded, etc., but it was quite magical for children. In the Winter months we could get up to all sorts of pranks without being spotted. It was different in the Summer, as it stayed light until well after our bedtime - the government had introduced Double British Summertime, so that the clocks were moved on an hour in early Spring and again in early Summer. We didn't really notice the shortages - working class people never had a lot anyway, and wartime rationing and controlled prices gave us a good chance to get our share. Bomb damaged houses that were still standing made ideal dens and adventure playgrounds for children. Broken slates from roofs could easily be shaped into tomahawk heads and tied to sticks to make games of cowboys and Indians more realistic. I can't remember anyone being damaged with these weapons, although one of our friends lost an eye to a badly aimed home-made arrow. The usual round of childrens' games were played - Tin Can Copperman, marbles, whip-and-tops, hide-and-seek and so on. Collecting shrapnel was a widespread hobby, with some items having more kudos than others. (Shrapnel was the broken pieces of bombs and shells that were created after the bomb or shell exploded). Shell nose cones and bomb steering fins were much more highly prized than just anonymous lumps of jagged steel.
We acquired a shell nose cone in quite a dramatic manner, and lost it even more dramatically. My mother, brothers and I were all sitting in the kitchen one evening in February 1994. The Blitz was now mainly a thing of the past, with only occasional raids from a much depleted Luftwaffe (the German Airforce), so we no longer did the nightly trek to the shelter. There was a raid in progress, with searchlights sweeping the sky and the anti-aircraft guns firing. We pretended to ignore the goings-on outside, but ready to hide under the kitchen table if things got serious. Suddenly there was a large thud from the other side of the door to the scullery, and plaster dust drifted in under the door. When we looked into the scullery there was a hole through the lean-to roof, and a nose cone lay on the floor. I think my mother was worried, although she hid it well, but we boys were agog with the "treasure" that had arrived through the ceiling. This was going to bring endless admiration in the playground the following day! Little did we know.....
Ken and I shared the back bedroom, and Terry slept in the front with our parents - although that night our father was on duty at the Fire station. At 4 o'clock the following morning Ken and I were woken by a most ferocious aerial battle going on above us. We got up and looked out of the window, and saw searchlights criss-crossing the sky, and lines of tracer shells going heavenwards. Then there was a dreadful howling noise, getting louder. Frightened, we turned to dive back into our bed when there was a huge explosion and the bed disappeared under falling bricks. Mum was calling out to us, to see if we were OK, but it was a couple of moments before we could clear our mouths of plaster dust and say we were fine. We found out later that the noise had woken her, and she had grabbed Terry and stood against the chimney breast. When the bomb went off, the house and the roof collapsed, and mum was standing with the roof fitted round her, inside the gap in the roof to take the chimney breast. She was able to get through to us in the remains of the back bedroom. We all climbed out of our bedroom window, (which had gone), and into our back yard, as the bedroom was now at ground floor level. We scrambled over our back fence into what had been the alley to the builders yard next door, over a roof that was now lying in it, then across to Nanny's house, just the other side of the road.
We found out later that the bomber that blew us up was piloted by an Italian, on a lone mission to bomb London. When he found himself caught in the searchlights he decided to jettison his bombs and flee back to the continent. He was shot down though
Dado (our grandfather) was in a very grumpy mood from such a rude awakening, but soon realised the situation and took us indoors. Although their house was still standing, it had been well shaken, the water main was fractured and leaking into the coal cellar, and the gas wasn't functioning. We sat on their sofa until about 7.30 in the morning just as it was getting light. The ARP (Air Raid Precautions, local volunteers who helped rescue people from bombed buildings) thought we were still buried in the rubble of our house, and were ready to start digging for us. When our father arrived home he was horrified by the sight of the pile of rubble and the ARP wardens trying to dig us out, and dashed across to see if Nanny and Dado were all right. The relief on his face was indescribable.
We were then taken by ambulance to a reception centre - a local hall that had been converted to be able to look after people who had been bombed out. It had camp beds for sleeping, a large pile of clothing for people to find something to wear, and a first-aid nurse to see to any minor injuries. After finding some clothes and having something to eat and drink, we had our cuts and knocks seen to by the First-Aid nurse, then my Mother, one of my brothers (I can't remember which) and I were taken to our local hospital for X-rays and a check-over by the doctor. After our treatment Mum had to see the Lady Almoner at the hospital. She was the person who decided whether patients had to pay for their treatment, or could have it free under their charity scheme. No National Health Service then! We were treated free, as my mother had no money at all - her handbag was buried under the house. We had to take the bus back to the reception centre, and fortunately the bus conductor took pity on us when he heard Mum's tearful story, and let us travel free.
The council put us all in temporary furnished accommodation to start with. Despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe there were quite a few houses around they could use - the occupants had fled to safer areas for the duration of the war. After a couple of weeks we were moved to a permanent rented house that the Council had requisitioned. They also gave my parents a few pounds to buy clothes and furniture, as we had nothing. After the war my parents finally got compensation to replace all we had lost.
Our new house was not as nice as the one we lost, but it had the advantage of not one but two Air Raid shelters. In the back garden was an Anderson shelter. This was made from large sheets of corrugated steel, with the tops curved over. These were set in a large hole in the garden, with the top half of the steel sheets sticking above the surface, and with the curved ends of the steel sheets meeting to form a roof. Other straight sheets were fitted at each end to form the front and back, and then all the earth from the hole was piled over the shelter. The front sheets had one panel omitted to form a doorway, but there was no door. Some people built a "blast wall" about two feet in front of the doorway, to shield the people inside. If the householder who built the shelter was good at building he would put in a concrete floor, and even concrete sides. These shelters were safe from anything but a direct hit, but were permanently damp, and very cold in the winter. People only went in them when the Air-Raid warning siren sounded.
Inside the house was a Morrison shelter. This took the form of a large, strong, steel table, with steel mesh panels round the sides. If there was an air raid the occupants would hide under the table. Even if the house was bombed the shelter would support the weight of the falling debris, and would keep the occupants safe until the ARP could dig them out. This was a lot more convenient. Our parents made a bed up under the table where my brothers and I slept. They slept on the top where they put the bedsprings and mattress from their bed. If there was a raid they would scramble underneath with us.
Our house was at the end of a terrace, with space alongside for another house. On this space was built a public surface shelter, a little like the one we used in the early part of the war, only smaller. We very seldom used that, preferring our shelter in the front room.
Not long after this, because of the threat from the V1's and V2's (see below), our parents decided to take up another offer of evacuation for children. This time all three of us were sent to Huddersfield in Yorkshire, where we stayed for 6 months. It was a different world up there - they had hardly seen anything of the war, just the occasional sight of German planes heading for Liverpool or Manchester. They were some of the kindest people that I've met, really putting themselves out to help us "Cockney" kids from War-torn London. But our parents were starting to miss us, and so, towards the end of 1944, my father came up by train to bring us all back to London. The blitz was now well and truly over.
Although the Luftwaffe had been destroyed, Hitler still had a couple of secret weapons up his sleeve. The first was the V1, nicknamed by the British as the "Buzz bomb", from the noise it made. It was a small unpiloted plane, powered by a crude jet engine, and loaded with high explosives. It would be launched from occupied France, and was steered to England by a radio beam. When it ran out of fuel its engine stopped, and it went into a steep glide until it crashed. The first of the V1's worried us at first, but we soon got used to them. The would fly over us with their engines going "putter-putter". All the time we could hear that we knew we were safe. As soon as the engine stopped, everyone would dive for cover behind walls, trees etc., and wait for the bang. We children got so used to them that if the engine cut as one passed overhead we would argue where it would land, and chase after it on our bikes to see.
There were several ways that the British forces dealt with them. The first line of defence were anti-aircraft guns along the south coast. They would fire at the V1's, but had trouble hitting them as V1's flew faster than any other planes they had shot at. The second line of defence were our fighter planes. Because the V1's were one of the first planes with a jet engine they were faster than most of the allied planes in level flight, but some of our fighters could catch up with them if the spotted them below and could dive on them. They had to be very careful when shooting them down, as the V1's exploded with great force, and would blow up any allied plane that had got too close. When we got our first jet fighters flying (the Meteor and the Vampire) they could outpace the V1's and catch them up. One of their tricks was to fly close alongside and get their wing tip under the V1's wing tip. With a little tweak they would get the buzz bomb to turn round and head back along its radio beam to France. Unfortunately, the Germans worked out what was happening and fixed "proximity" fuses under the wing tips. If one of our planes tried to put its wing tip under the other wing tip the fuse would explode the V1. So we went back to shooting them down.
A cunning scheme worked out by our scientists was to "bend" the radio beam that the buzz bomb was flying along, just by a few degrees, so that instead of coming down on London it came down in fields in East Anglia, where there were far fewer people to hurt.
Once we had got used to the buzz bombs, Hitler launched his second secret weapon - the V2. Ther were no nicknames for this - it was too serious to joke about. The V2 was the first rocket based missile, large enough to cross from France and Holland to England, packed with high explosives. It was a very simple weapon, stand it on a launch pad pointing towards England and ignite the rocket motor. It would take off into the air, and fly up into the stratosphere. When it ran out of fuel it turned over and dived back to earth. If the Germans had aimed it correctly it would land on London. Because the rocket motor had stopped, and it was flying faster then the speed of sound, there was no warning sound until it exploded. Also there was no defence against it. When the allies invaded German occupied Europe one of their first priorities was to find and destroy the launching sites and the factories where they were made.
Once the invasion got under way the war didn't affect the people at home so directly, except that we still had rationing. Before the war much of our food came from abroad - wheat from Canada, tea from India, fruit from the continent, beef from Argentina etc. Once the war started it was far more difficult to bring merchant ships to Britian, as the German ships and submarines were at large on the oceans. So the government decided on two strategies - produce more home-grown food, and ration the amount each person could have. As most able-bodied men were in the armed forces, women were drafted into farm work. They joined what was called "The Land Army". Even city girls soon started being useful on farms, milking cows, driving tractors, harvesting etc. All spare land was ploughed up to start growing crops on. Allotments for people to grow their own vegetables were created in public parks, derelict plots of land, the gardens of houses destroyed by bombs, and so on. One of the big slogans of the war was "Dig for Victory". Pig clubs were formed, with groups of people coming together to rear pigs in back gardens and behind workplaces. Pigs will eat just about anything, so "swill bins" were place in every street for people to put in old cabbage leaves, potato peelings and anything else edible enough for pigs. This was distributed to pig clubs. When the pigs were big enough they were slaughtered and butchered, and the meat distributed among the club members. However, in return for getting the bins of pig swill, the club members had their Government meat ration reduced.
I don't remember the precise details of the ration allowance, but I do remember it was quite meagre. There was one egg a week, I think two ounces of butter and four ounces of margarine, and about one and tuppence worth of meat. That's about 6p in modern money. Because it was rationed by price instead of weight, it meant you got more meat if you chose the cheaper cuts. We used to have a lot of stews, but then we had done that before the war anyway, as most working people did. Sweets were rationed, but many adults gave up their ration to their children. Milk was not rationed, and bread was unrationed until after the war, for some reason. Clothes were rationed, and styles had to be very plain, to save on material and manufacturing time. All younger children wore "hand-me-downs", which was unfortunate for one of my school friends, as he only had an older sister. But no-one teased him when he wore dresses to school: we all knew the circumstances, and anyway he was a tough little kid who you teased at your peril.
The war finally ended in 1945, first the war in Europe, and then the war in Asia against Japan. Both events were celebrated with gusto, with bonfires, street parties, and games and entertainments. In our street the bonfire was actually built in the middle of the street. It was so big and hot that the fence opposite it started smouldering, and the owner had to keep throwing water over it to stop it bursting into flames. Next day when we cleared away the ashes we found a large hole burnt into the road surface.
Rationing stayed with us for a few more years, until the country had repaid some of its overseas debts and could start to allow large scale imports of food again.

20th September 2002

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