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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Three Counties Action on behalf of Patricia Purcell and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

My Memories

1939 — I am 12/13. Back to school late, in North London, to find Air Raid Shelters in place. My father, Fleet Street Journalist, Home Guard, my Mother air raid warden, war. Work secretarial, in Finchley. Gardens dug up; Air shelter — vegetables. Rationing clothes, nothing wasted. No T.V., only 9:00 News. Pathe news in cinema Saturday afternoons.

The moment when a direct hit fell on friend’s house, one survivor. All our age. The smell of the flowers at the funerals of our school friends.
The terrible rumble of gun-fire every night.

The night when dockland and the Thames Estuary were attacked. I stood in my room, looking at what could only be described as a sky from hell — brilliant red, lighting up the whole horizon. Our neighbour was a fireman — missing for three days, fell through front door, wife just put him into bed as he was, black from head to foot.

The memory of my Father, on a bus in Kingsway, when a V.2. Blew The Strand, Bush House, Apart. He arrived at my Mothers office, silent, grey with dust, torn clothing, with no explanation. Brought home, put to bed, quite silent. I was told not to question him. On the 9:00 news we heard about the destruction. He never spoke about it. How he crossed London to my Mother we never knew. He did say he was on a bus, stepped over the bodies.

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