大象传媒

Childhood Memories From the Second World War

I was born in 1935 and spent the war years attending St. Bartholomew's Primary School in Penn, Wolverhampton. Certain events frequently come back with great clarity and the following stories are all true and happened at that particular time.

My first day at school was quite memorable. Being the youngest of three, I couldn't wait to be like the others and start school. It was 1940 and I was told the Infant class played with water and sand and had all manner of wonderful toys. My excitement knew no bounds when the bell rang and the tension mounted as the' little ones' were led into a big room, crowded ( it seemed to me ) with hundreds of children. There was a great deal of discussion between the teacher and a large fat man. I later realised this was the Headmaster. We were then told there was a teacher shortage due to the war and some of us would have to move into another class. The teacher in charge then held up her hand and asked if anyone knew how many rings she had on her finger. Quick as a flash I shouted out ' Three! ' To my consternation I was beckoned to the front and waited while she asked other questions and two boys answered correctly. The three of us were then 'promoted' to the class next door and much to my intense disappointment, our reward for being so clever meant we were never allowed to take part in the delightful activities of the infant class. It was my first inkling that school may not be quite all I'd hoped for and the war was going to play a significant role in the years that lay ahead ahead.

The school air raid shelters left a big impression. They were long and dark and had an awful smell which I can remember to this day. Musty, wet concrete with a hint of mushrooms, decay and stagnant water, all mixed together to create an unmistakable, nose wrinkling odour. When the sirens went, we had to pick up the hated gas masks, file silently down the almost vertical steps and sit hunched together on narrow little benches. Even on the hottest days it felt unusually cold down there. We couldn't do much because the lighting was dim and eerie so we sang songs such as ' Roll out the Barrel' and 'We're going to hang out the washing on the Seigfried Line '. The singing helped because I was really very frightened and could never understand why we were supposed to be safer in the shelters than in the school. My reasoning was - if a bomb was going to drop, it could just as well land on the shelter as the school.

We used to pass a lovely farm while ambling up the long lane to school and one time we were told to walk on the opposite side and only speak in hushed whispers. No one could go near the farm because they had ' Foot and Mouth Disease' which meant all the cattle had been slaughtered and everywhere was covered with lime. We were advised not to look across at the farmer but keep our eyes averted. After all, everyone seemed to be reasoning, wasn't it enough to have a war? The inference seemed to be that Foot and Mouth was rather shameful. Memories of this event came flooding back during the recent crisis and only then did I realise how devastating it must have been for the farmer and his family. After it was all over and we could walk on both sides of the lane, I recall the kindness of that farmer. He knew we were lacking fresh fruit and he used to leave great sacks of pears outside his big gates with a sign ' FOR THE CHILDREN'. Since that day I have never tasted pears that could match the sweetness of those picked out of those sacks.

Our school was on the edge of Penn Common and American soldiers were billeted in special quarters there. They used to come and lean on the school wall and watch us play. Sometimes they would throw coins and we used to scrabble and fight for every penny. I used to join in with the rest but never managed to grab a coin. For some strange reason I was relieved but never understood why. Puzzling about it now I think it felt wrong - trying to get something for nothing - probably related to our upbringing. After my birth the family had moved from South Wales to Penn so that my father could find employment and they brought with them very strong Chapel influences. We were sent to Sunday School and taught that honesty and hard work would reap a just reward while something for nothing was definitely frowned upon.

My childhood was really very happy and it was a dreadful shock when my father had his call up papers and joined the RAF. I was thrilled at first and thought of him flying planes and how important we would all be. My joy was short lived however, on realising my father was to be 'ground staff ' and my mother was to return to teaching - to help keep us solvent I presume and to do her 'bit'. No longer was she there when I came home from school and as the youngest, I was home 30 minutes ahead of the others. I was given a back door key which was the worry of my life. It was not to be lost and on returning home my orders were to let myself in and lock the door behind me. If only it could have been that simple ! The feeling of dread while walking up the path, knowing I couldn't do it. Not once did I manage to turn that key in the lock and let myself in. Even now a sense of panic grips me if a key sticks and the door won't open first time. My mother never knew of my plight because our next door neighbour ( kind Mrs. Elsemore ) used to hear me crying and come and open the door for me. Oh, the sense of gratitude and relief as she let me in. Amazingly, I never had any bother locking the door from the inside, something very puzzling and quite beyond my understanding. I often wonder why I didn't tell my mother of my problems. Some inner sense seemed to prevent me from causing her bother or worry. Young as I was, it seemed wrong to burden her with my inadequacies - especially when there was a war on.

At night time, when we were all together in the house and the sirens went, we used to race for protection to the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden. We all had duties and mine was to grab my mother's handbag and take it safely to the shelter. This responsibility was taken very seriously but inevitably one day, nearing the shelter, I realised the bag had been forgotten. Consumed with guilt I raced back to the house taking no notice of my mother's shouts to 'come back' and heart pounding, dashed upstairs, grabbed the bag and puffing and panting, headed back to the shelter, while the aeroplanes droned overhead. My mother hugged me and said never to do that again as however important her bag, it was not as important as my life. I remember marvelling at that and being amazed that I could be more important than my mother's bag - but pleased all the same.

Because my handwriting was neat, a big duty, seriously undertaken, was writing notes for the milkman and the baker and then pinning them to the shed door. I was rather proud of this job and rather boastful about it to the others, but pride certainly goes before a fall ! On one occasion my instruction was to leave a note for the baker asking for two loaves. Unfortunately, my spelling was not up to the standard of my handwriting and I asked for ' Two loves please'. Everyone thought it hugely funny and I had to endure the story being told over and over again to even complete strangers. I managed to avoid the baker for months and when we eventually met again he was still chuckling about it and assured me he was ready anytime. My sense of humour failure caused even more merriment but the lesson learnt has stayed with me to this day.

Another great worry for me was the nose (yes, nose ! ) of one of our neighbours ! Unfortunately it was very large, very shiny and very red and all the children hoped she wouldn't go outside when the German planes were passing overhead. On enquiring why, they explained, if the German planes spotted the beacon of her nose we would certainly be bombed ! After all, the nose didn't have any blackout ! My agitation knew no bounds when she popped in to see us when it was dark - especially if the sirens went and she had to dash home. What if the German's spotted her ? The family found it hilarious when I suggested we'd be safer if Mrs. C. wore an extra large hat or a nose cover !

One time I was quite ill with the measles virus and my mother stayed home to look after me. I felt wretched and as she plied me with yet another drink I wanted to know why I had to be the one to catch measles and why couldn't someone else have it instead. My mother gently reproved me and said while she would be happy to bear my misery, it was wrong to wish my misfortune on others. This made me rather thoughtful until suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. If Hitler was such a terrible man surely my mother could have no objection if I wished my measles on him ? When I suggested this, she thought long and hard about it and then with a wry smile reluctantly agreed, perhaps as he was such a VERY wicked man, he would be the best candidate. Honour vindicated and feeling rather smug, I dropped off to sleep with visions of a spotty, itchy Hitler lying in bed - still doing the Nazi salute !

We were very privileged as a family because we were one of the few that went on holiday. In actual fact, we were going to South Wales to see all our Aunts, Uncles and many cousins and we all stayed at Grandma's. The excitement for me was intense and I couldn't eat anything the morning we were to catch the train to Pontypool Station. We caught the trolley bus into Wolverhampton and then walked to the station, each of us carrying a bag or battered suitcase. As we entered the station I was beside myself with delight and anticipation. The sights, sounds and smells were just wonderful and never to be forgotten. The carriages were always packed and once, the train had to stay in a tunnel for a long time because - we were told - of German bombers overhead. I don't know how true that was but it added to the danger and thrill of the journey. Members of the family met us at the station and my joy was complete. We went to bed with candles, ( no electric light at Grandma's), slept three to a bed, had picnics, walks on the mountain where we rolled in the heather, picked blue berries - we called them ' wimbries' - had family get togethers and sang lots of songs around the piano. It was just magical to me. My favourite day was the trip on the little local train to Barry. Oh how I loved the sea and even the barbed wire coiled along the beach could not stifle my pleasure. We ate sandy sandwiches and they tasted grittily delicious and had bakestones for afters. We paddled in the sea, quite oblivious of the cold. Eventually we trundled home, tired but so happy, the war forgotten by us all for just one day. When, eventually it was time to return to Penn and we all waved goodbye from the carriage windows, I was desolate. By now, everyone was aware of my turbulent emotions and I would struggle to hold back the tears but to no avail. My mother would sigh, put her arm around my shoulders to comfort me and through a blurr of tears, I would furiously wave my hanky to our wonderful relatives until they faded into the distance through the steam and smoke.

One memorable day my father came home on 'Embarkation Leave' which sounded very grand to me and I proudly told my friends and only vaguely noticed the strange looks exchanged by the grown-ups. The day before he was due back to barracks we were given notes for school to say we were to leave early so as to say good bye to him as my mother would be in school. We walked to the Trolley Bus stop with him and tried to help carry his kit. Unease lay at the pit of my stomach and a cloud seemed to hang over me. As the bus came along Penn Road, my father hugged us one by one and then it hit me. I burst into tears and begged him not to go. He gave a last squeeze, jumped on the bus and stood with his kit bag by his side. As the bus pulled away, holding onto the pole he shouted, " I'll be back ... I'll be back - You'll see ....I'll be back ......" Bathed in tears yet again, I glanced at the people on the bus thinking how ashamed they would be to see a child so abandoned to grief, so out of control. It was then I had a most terrible shock. Most of them were crying and wiping away tears and they all seemed to be looking at me ! That moment is as vivid to me now as the day it occurred. The faces are imprinted on my mind. Mainly women, wearing hats with tiny bits of net and tilted to one side. But mostly I was aware of their tears and all those eyes with pity and sadness flooding from them. Sometimes I wonder where they are now. Are they still alive ? After all, my mother is. If they are, do they remember that day as vividly as I ? My father came back safely from France and after the war we resumed our family life, but I often contemplate how different we might all have been if the war had never happened.

To commemorate the end of the war, all the schools in Wolverhampton and district, congregated at the Molyneux Football Stadium for a special service. We had to learn two special songs - 'Jerusalem ' and ' I Vow to Thee My Country '. I loved singing and learnt and sang the songs with gusto. The special day came and before we set off in a Charabanc we were told our behaviour was to be immaculate. Dressed in our best, we entered the stadium and I was quite overawed. It seemed an enormous place to me and I watched in wonder as all the schools filed in and lined up in their allotted places. How I envied the uniforms the big children were wearing. I vowed at that moment that I would pass my 11+ and go to a school which had a uniform to make everyone proud. Eventually, all the dignitaries entered and the service started. We were seated high in the stands and had a clear view of everything. The singing started and I joined in with enthusiasm but suddenly the words stuck in my throat. As I gazed around at all the other children, emotion took over. I tried so hard to fight it, this achilles heel of mine, but it was useless. I was in floods of tears and just ached with the overwhelming struggle to battle against the inevitable. Music has always had this effect on me and even now the memory of that day brings a tightness to the throat and pricking behind the eyes. I got through it somehow but felt drained and subdued as we drove home. My mother asked how it had gone and I mumbled something but didn't look in her eyes. I realised she knew what had happened but she didn't say anything. Just gave me a hug and changed the subject. What a relief ! What a mother !

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