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This story has been written to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's War site by CSV Storygatherer Coralie, on behalf of William John Turner. The story has been added to the site with his permission and William fully understands the terms and conditions of the site.

In Memory Of Mothers — Their Love And Dedication To Family Life Brought Us Through.

I remember the years of the last war only too well. As a young lad of eleven years, with two younger brothers and two younger sisters, we were all indoors listening to the radio, which was all we had in those days, when the announcement was made. We were living at that time in a cottage, adjacent to Buckfast Abbey, near to Buckfastleigh. My Father was then serving with the R.A.F. and away from home. The announcement that we were at war with Germany, meant very little to us children, but I could see our Mother’s feelings of despair and concern.

Not long after the declaration of war, volunteers, from the Armed Forces, were requested to transfer from one to the other, especially into the Navy, which my Dad did. He was based at Devonport, so we all moved to Plymouth, with all our chattels in the back of a cattle truck, and all the children in the back also. I remember stopping en route at what was then the Carew Arms at Marley Head, for a break and a drink. At that time, it was never imagined that Plymouth was ever likely to be bombed in such a way. The move was like a great adventure to all of us.

Our destination in Plymouth was a very large empty public house called The London Mail, at Richmond St, just around the corner from The Harvest Home and lying off Coburg St, opposite the College. The pub had been empty for some time but the bar area was still fitted out, with two further floors of living quarters, plus an attic. It wasn’t to be long however, before life began to take an ominous twist. The air raid sirens began their practise runs, the blackout of lights came into force, sand-bags were put outside every front door, air raid shelters were being erected and also Anderson shelters in people’s gardens.

By this time, the threat of being bombed was striking home, so we reinforced a cupboard under the stairs with wooden supports, and lined up just inside the front door were five wooden stools. These would be used in case of an air-raid if we all had to make a dash for the nearest brick shelter, which was up a lane opposite our house. I can only remember the date of the first raid because it was near to my twelfth birthday, July 6th 1940. On this first occasion we all huddled underneath the stairs, very frightened, but as the air raids became more dangerous, we would all run for the front door, grab a stool and go over to the brick shelter. Eventually, as the raids became more frequent, especially at night, a pattern began to take shape. As dark fell, all street lights went out and heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. If even a chink of light was to be seen from outside, an air-raid warden, on patrol, would call, and shout ‘Put out that bloody light’. All vehicles were fitted with special blinkered lights, which also deflected downwards.

During the day, we would often watch the dog fights high up in the sky, although all one could see would be vapour trails and the glint of aircraft fighting their battle. If the big ships were in port, they would open up with their 4.5 guns, and on one occasion I remember, my Mum and I were watching such an episode from the front door, when, in daylight, the ships opened up on the enemy planes. We heard something hit the door between us. I picked up the object, which was very hot, so I dropped it again. Later, it was found to be a lump of jagged shrapnel, with a marking of a 4.5 shell from a ship. During the daytime, as kids, we would look on an air-raid as an adventure, and we would often wander around looking for pieces of shrapnel etc. I remember our old hand-wound gramophone: we used to sit on the kerb-side playing records to passers-by, with the hope of earning a few coppers. I don’t think we ever got much.

Life really was a great adventure for us kids, in spite of the dangers, but as darkness came in, and another air-raid, fear took the place of excitement. As the air-raids became more intense, especially at nights, and we were all huddled in the shelters, at times shivering with fear as the bombs fell around us, it was realised that such shelters offered very little protection against a direct hit. This proved to be the case on many occasions. It was always a relief when the ‘all clear’ siren would sound, and we could go back home.

By this time, the Luftwaffe pilots were becoming more educated in the art of bombing. The air-raid warning would sound; some German aircraft would come in and drop their bombs, whilst a second wave would wait out over the Channel. The first wave would return to their base, the ‘all clear’ would sound, and the second wave would then fly in, catching everyone by surprise. Eventually, we became very contemptuous of the raids and would not always run for the shelters. We had a dartboard up in the attic and often we would all go up there to play darts, and, I remember, we used to suck iodised sweets all the time whilst playing.

The attic had a large window, from which one had a good view over the city centre. At the bottom of Richmond St, into Russell St, Goodbody’s Bakery had their premises. One early evening, during a raid, it was hit by a bomb and erupted into flames. Watching this from the attic, we eventually saw that whole building suddenly explode, with a mass of shooting sparks. I can remember the safety railings on the top of the building literally melting, with the heat. One could often hear bombs whistling over the house, but it was widely stated, that if you heard the bomb approaching, then it wasn’t meant for you; the bomb meant for you would be a silent one!

On another occasion, the spire of Charles Church, which is now a relic, was hit by an incendiary bomb. The spire which was wooden soon became an inferno. We also witnessed this from the attic window. Quite often incendiary bombs would drop around our house. At the time, all you would hear was a loud PLOP like a balloon going off, and see a sudden burst of flame. We would immediately run to pick up a sandbag from outside the front door, dropping it over the incendiary bomb to douse the flames, preventing the German bombers getting a sight of any targets.

On another occasion, I remember, the oil depot was bombed and set on fire. For some reason, the flames could not be extinguished, so it was decided to blow up the large fuel tanks in an effort to douse the flames. They had been burning for several days and were a good beacon for the enemy planes to home in on. Everyone was advised to stay indoors on the demolition day, at 11.00am. On this day, for some reason, my mother sent me out to get some food and clothing from a Charity shop no far away. We had very little of anything at this time, because of the rationing. As I walked up the street, pushing my old cycle, I heard a series of explosions, and then a large rock fell into the street not far from me. I dropped my cycle, and raced off towards home in panic, straight into a lamp-post, cutting open my head. At least, the flames of the oil depot were put out. However, there were many explosions still to come, and I remember an ammunition train being bombed at North Road Station. The trucks were towed away from the area, with ammunition exploding as they went along, with multitudes of sparks everywhere.

There were times of extreme sadness that I can bring to mind as regular flashbacks. My dear mother, sadly gone now, used to help out at the Air Raid Bunker which the wardens used. During lulls in the bombing, she would go home, making tea for everyone and returning to the bunker with it. On one occasion, whilst doing so, the bombers returned, dropped their bombs, causing a lump of masonry to come through the roof, and down through the staircase, trapping my mother upstairs. Her only exit was from the first floor window, but as she tried to get out, a stick of bombs fell across the street and the blast literally sucked her out of the window, dropping her down onto the street below. She was badly injured, but survived the trauma.

Another flashback, is of an occasion when a shelter at the rear of what I believe was called the Technical College then, was hit by an aerial torpedo: very many people were killed and I remember, quite vividly, seeing the green dustcarts with opening side-flaps, and their operators, who were picking up off the streets, bits and pieces of human remains and other debris. I also remember vividly, when the stables of a firm by the name of Stoneman, who kept Shire horses for pulling brewery carts etc., were hit by an incendiary and caught fire. Many of the horses were badly injured and were taken out onto the cobbled road and put down.

Watching the barrage balloons, which were literally everywhere, being winched up and down, was another adventure to stand in awe of. It took some time for their usage to be appreciated, as with the searchlights, which during an air-raid were also to be in awe of, again, watched mostly from the attic. They would search the skies for enemy aircraft and once one was picked out in the beam, others would join in and envelope the plane in an aura of light, then the big ships’ guns would open up on the visible target.

Another very outstanding item of those war years was the very sound of enemy aircraft as they came to bomb the city. The constant drone, with the up and down and pitch of their engines, still remains with me. No other sound could match it. Also, there was the scream of the Stuka dive-bombers, who did their work in daylight. Several streets in Devonport were almost wiped out by their low-level tactics. As stated previously, as the Blitz progressed in its intensity, we spent many more hours in the shelters, sometimes for up to 8 hours or so. We had very little education in those days. Our school, which we walked to, was in Cecil St. On one occasion though, we arrived there to find the school in ruins, like many others. However, if there was a raid after midnight the pupils were not expected to go to school anyway.

The final chapter of our life in Plymouth was a very intense night of heavy bombing, which went on for many hours. We spent this time in the brick shelter, with bombs exploding, seemingly, all around us. I had my baby brother in my arms on this occasion, as my mother was assisting the wardens not far away. Suddenly, after one very loud explosion, the concrete roof of the shelter lifted up, allowing in the light from the burning buildings outside the shelter, and enveloping everyone in dust. After the ‘all clear’ sounded, I remember leaving the shelter, to see the devastation and burning buildings around us. We picked our way through the rubble towards our house, and found that it had been bombed also, and all our possessions were gone. Being rather headstrong in my youth, and in tears at the state of the house, I picked my way through the debris to the upstairs bedrooms. All the contents had seemingly stacked against one wall and the glass from the smashed windows was embedded in the wall where the beds were — the shelter had saved our lives. It was learnt later that the King and Queen were in Plymouth on this occasion, and their presence was known to the Germans.

After spending a few more nights in a friend’s house, we eventually moved back to Buckfastleigh and stayed with family until we were re-housed. The only possessions we had, at that time, were the clothes we wore. Communities were very close in those years, and it wasn’t long before we all had a change of clothes. They fitted only where they touched, but at least they were clean.

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