大象传媒

This story is by Joyce Gibson, and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The story was collected by Joyce Gibson, transcribed by Elizabeth Lamont and added to the site by Bruce Logan.
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I suppose our first experience of a near miss could hardly be classified as such. Bombs in those days were minute and, unless you received a direct hit, seemed relatively harmless. We had been lulled into a sense of false security by the phoney war. The authorities had cried wolf too long and we were sure nothing was going to happen. So it was that our newly-erected Anderson shelter, although an old flock mattress covered the floor mainly so that I could use it as a play house, didn鈥檛 even have a door. My parents and I, pruning the roses one day in the garden, were suddenly aware of two little sets of glittering fish approaching each other in the sky above 鈥淟ook Jack鈥� said my mother 鈥渄on鈥檛 they look pretty? What are those odd shapes falling out behind them?鈥� A few seconds later we found ourselves unceremoniously blasted into the shelter and under the mattress which Dad had somehow managed to pull over us.

A bomb had fallen into the next door garden raining rocks, soil and pebbles down on us. The mattress had saved us from death by stoning. My father鈥檚 subsequent excitement and his undignified rush to view the shot-down 鈥淛erry鈥� plane complete with crew, now seem unbelievable. I went with him until we were abruptly turned back by a policeman who

My next narrow escape came a few months later at the height of the 1940鈥檚 London Blitz. Enemy planes, having no radar equipment (not yet invented!) used the Portsmouth to Waterloo railway line as a guide to reach their ultimate target, Central London. My aunt lived a few hundred yards from this line and a quarter of a mile from the station. On this particular day I, with other children, was being entertained to tea. The warning sounded and we were bundled behind the settee just in case. Her smart brick private air raid shelter was still being built. Suddenly there came a huge bang, the whole room rocked and, terrified, we rocked with it, but no damage was done. Two hundred and thirty commuters returning home on the train from their work in London were sheltering under the main staircase of the nearby station. They were all killed by a direct hit.

My third memorable brush with death came much later. We have moved, again near the same railway line to stay with my grandparents, whilst my father served in the Royal Marines. The distance to our house was about three mile, a bicycle ride made daily by my mother who bailed out the water from a sump or well in the corner of our Anderson shelter in readiness for our eventual return home. A flooded shelter would have been a major disaster. I often accompanied her and, on this particular occasion, had enjoyed a sunbathe on the steps outside the French windows as she energetically emptied out the water on to the garden. However, our ride home was not so peaceful. As we approached my Grandmother鈥檚 semi-detached, just above the roof tops opposite, there appeared what seemed to me an enormous German fighter plane, machine guns blazing. I could see the black crosses under its wings. In terror, I fell off my bike, badly grazing my knee in the process but was rescued by my Grandfather, who ran out and scooped me up from the road. Luckily, no one was hit and we all lived to tell the tale.

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