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

The first air raid warning, on 3rd September, 1939, heralded my war. Mum was with the lady living in the flat upstairs and we desperately wanted her with us downstairs. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t clutching us close and telling us no bombs would fall and that it would be all right. No, upstairs gassing! Dad wasn’t home, just my two brothers and me, and Mum if she could see her way clear to joining us. Maybe, in hindsight, she too was seeking reassurance.

By the time the London Blitz of 1940 was well under way (I was eight and two brothers were slightly older,) we were accustomed to the nightly red glow, rumbling of guns and exploding bombs. Living in High Barnet it all seemed so close, and to us kids, very exciting. Then our turn came in the form of a landmine. It wasn’t a direct hit; we were the last in a row of houses that wasn’t gutted, just windows, ceiling and furniture gone. Puppy Winnie’s eyebrows turned white overnight with fright. We youngsters were safely asleep in a cupboard under the stairs, whilst Mum and Dad dived under the table. My recollection was that she fell in on top of us and the weight of a falling mother was more horrific than what was going on outside! (Our beds had shards of glass sticking from them so hooray for the stair-cupboard).

I wasn’t aware of being frightened and sensed no fear from the parents, so it seemed we gained confidence from them. The day after the raid we joined the rest of the local kids and explored the bombed out buildings. We found a paradise playground, finding the odd roller-skate, rummaging for the other one, coming across damaged dolls and complaining because of their condition. How little we cared for the owners; not a thought was given to what had befallen them. Mercifully, the young don’t realise the gravity of such situations — that comes with later years of reflection.

Although forbidden to go into the derelict houses, the temptation was too great and we had great fun pushing down inside walls (inside walls!) We dared each other to balance our way across an upper floor charred beam, jump from first floors to the ground, have stone fights with opposing gangs, or anything that reeked of danger. Seemingly we were caught up in the atmosphere of violence and wanted to be part of it. Who knows? At that time I couldn’t account for our behaviour but it befitted the mood.

Not long after that, my eldest brother (12) was drowned in a pond on the common. I had a premonition on the morning that it happened, as in my eight-year-old mind I knew he wouldn’t be coming home, and said as much to him. We children were sent to my Nan in the country, where tranquillity became what was accepted as normal. I was twelve on VE day and spent it riding through the West End on a red double-decker bus. Mum was a conductress on a route which went down Regent Street through Piccadilly. The bus could hardly move for the crowd, and I was the only passenger upstairs viewing the masses of cheering people. How I wanted to be amongst them, although I think the experience was better appreciated from my bird’s eye view.

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