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It had been my 11th birthday nine days before. I had passed my 11-plus and was moving to Grammar School when school started after the summer holidays.

That alone was a shock to the system as I was the only one from my class going there, so I would have no friends near me. The headmaster had interviewed me a month or so earlier to make sure I was acceptable and checking my intelligence by asking questions such as — if flour cost 2d a pound, butter was 3d a half-pound and eggs were a 1/2d each, how much would a ½d bun cost?

For more than a year there had been talk of war, but people didn’t really believe it would happen and if it did, it would soon be over. Now it was beginning to look serious. The council workman had dug a hole in our garden and put in an air-raid shelter, about 2 metres wide and 2½ metres long, big enough for 2 pairs of primitive bunk beds. Air-raid sirens had been sounded so that we could recognise the difference between the warning and the all clear.

The government decided that all children would be evacuated from big cities to protect them from bombing. School resumed earlier than usual so that new pupils could be sent away, but where, we had no idea.

My sister, who was at a different school, had to assemble at Euston Station. I had to assemble at Paddington. Luggage consisted of one small case, gas mask and sandwiches. On our jackets were labels saying who we were in case we forgot! We found out from the engine driver that our train was going to Cheddar, where-ever that might be! (People were not well travelled in those days, there were very few televisions and many people didn’t even have a wireless set)

The journey was long, about 5 hours, with many unscheduled stops. These children only trains were extras running without regards to normal services and could only proceed when the track was clear of essential goods and troop trains. At the arrival station the Women’s Voluntary Service was in charge. They had been round the locality finding homes where we children could stay. If anyone has a spare bed they had to take a child. I was put with a farmers wife, way outside a small village. The whole school was spread over a large part of the countryside around the village of Wedmore. The only room big enough to hold one class at a time was a village hall about 2 miles away from where I was lodging. One day to fill time, since it was impossible to teach in classes, the school went on an outing to the Cheddar caves.

We were given postcards to write home to say where we were staying. Very few people had phones, so letters were the only way to make contact.

Here I was, further away from home than I had ever been before, away from my parents and friends, in the wild countryside instead of the city, not getting any schooling. Staying with reluctant foster parents who were not used to having children around and with a war about to start. I was not scared, as far as I can remember, but I was completely out of my depth.

After about 3 weeks of this lack of school premises, the school was transferred to Minehead where we could us the local Grammar School in the afternoons and church halls round the area in the mornings. More foster parents, this time they were in their eighties and could not cope with the 3 boys they were allocated so after a few months there was another change of lodgings.

Foster parents received something like 5 shillings a week for housing and feeding each child. I do not know how much my parents had to contribute towards this. Remember that at the outbreak of war, average wages were less than £2 a week.

During school holidays we were allowed home to our parents, where we often had to spend the nights sleeping in the air-raid shelter, a cold damp place.

There were many sad times, when boys were called into the headmaster’s office to be told that their parents had been killed in the bombing or in the forces. Over-all it was a character building period, but one that I would have sooner done without.

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