大象传媒

This story was added to the People's War site by a volunteer from 大象传媒 Newcastle on behalf of Mary Charlton. Mary Charlton fully understands the site's terms and conditions and the story has been added with her permission.

"It is sometime in the middle of the night. I am being fussed over by my big sister. She's helping me into my siren suit. Mam is fretting over the baby, Mary, who is supposed to be in her gasmask but Mam knows she does not like it. It's quite dark (any light would be spotted by the bombers) but eyes adapt and we have been through this many times so it's no problem. Mam has decided she'll carry Mary and the gasmask. Margaret will hold my hand; this all takes less time than it does to write as it is now by routine. If they pick the north the sirens will wake us up with that horrible wail and our night in the shelter will begin.

We hurry down the street close to the walls until we're opposite the shelter door then straight in - no fooling around - Mam and Margaret would not have had that and, besides, the mood of the moment kills any light thoughts in me.

There is no door to the shelter(splinters can kill) but the entrance is a kind of zigzag which is awkward for my Mam with Mary and the gasmask. She's carried that thing back and forward - where we go, it goes. Imagine a cross between a carry cot and a space capsule. It seals when closed. It has air filters sticking out of it, but to Mary it must be like a tomb. I hope she never remembers it; she was just a baby after all.

We are quite snobby about out air raid shelter, unlike the ones on Headlam Street (just brick sheds with cement roofs, wouldn't stop a firecracker). Ours is underground with room for everyone in our street. It is dim and damp but to the grown-ups this shelter is safe - "They can do their bloody worst, we'll be ok".

What few men there are gather in the doorway. I suppose this would be considered macho now, but back then it seemed the natural thing. Passed over by the forces for any number of reasons, they were nevertheless the men of the street, so they stood there waiting, passing a rare Woodbine from one to another; low talk, nervous laughter - pride of place for any husband or son, home on leave.

The women sat, some knitting. They talked of normal every day things, no mention of men folk who were away. Keeping an eye on the kids ("Keep still our Robert, go to sleep. You'll wake your Margaret".) The siren suit is itchy, looks stupid, but it is easy to put on a half-awake kid and besides, Churchill wears one in public and he's going to get us out of this.

Faces are strained - not fear I think, otherwise we kids would have known - but something. Grown-ups are funny that way. On bad nights the voices would still at the sound of bombers, and, later in the war, when a doodlebug engine cut out, the eyes would follow an imagined arc until a bang told the street they'd missed.

Oh yes, someplace was damaged, someone hurt or worse, but not my family, not my street. How long before the all clear? I don't know, I'm a kid remember. Ask someone older and they will tell you.

Just hope that you never find out."

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