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I was born in January 1940 and for the first 5 years of my life knew nothing other than war, the austerity and the making do with what little one had.

We lived in to the South-East of London, a few miles away from Biggin Hill, the now famous RAF fighter base. The sounds of aircraft droning in the sky and not far away a local ack-ack battery were complemented by the search-lights scanning the night sky for enemy aircraft.

I can recall when I was about 2 or 3 the routine of hearing the warning siren, grabbing my eiderdown about me and running down the stairs to go and sit with my Mother under the stairs until the all-clear sounded. Many a time I would trip over the bedclothes in my haste. However a little later on we were lucky to get a Morrison shelter. This rather rusty angle iron construction was built in the corner of our lounge and from then on I would sleep downstairs in relative safety. I can still recall looking out of the wire mesh sides at my Mother darning socks under what must have been a single bare light-bulb.

Life carried on. Both milk and bread were delivered by horse and cart. Ration books, queuing and having to use the public air-raid shelters were part of everyday life. Even so, as a youngster I had more freedom than the children of today, going out to the local common with my pal and building camps and climbing trees, or running errands to the shops. The only thing we were told was not to pick up anything suspicious we saw on the ground as it could be dangerous. I was oblivious to any worry my Mother might have had.

In the early stages of the war we were lucky, the house was unscathed apart from an incendiary bomb setting light to the conifers in the front garden. It was towards the end that things took a turn for the worse.

My relations lived in Essex and were having a hard time of it with the constant phut-phut-phut of the V1 flying bombs. These you dreaded once the noise stopped as it indicated that it was coming down. So they made the journey to our house for a short stay to get respite from these attacks. They arrived were greeted and we all stood in the hallway talking when my Cousin called out and pushed me behind him. Then came an enormous explosion. The front door was blown off and shot up the hallway (thankfully missing everyone), the ceilings came down and the windows blown in. For all the damage the thing that stays in my memory is the layer of soot in both of the living rooms covering rugs, furniture and the remains of the ceilings.

Upstairs was a similar story with the addition that a piece of hot shrapnel had come into Mother’s bedroom, hit the wall and burst through the back of the bed-head to lie smoldering and burning it’s way through the bedding. For years afterwards the blankets would show the result of that day. It would be a long time before we found out that a V2 rocket had landed some 100 yards away.

I can’t recall how long it took the temporary repairs to be executed, but I do recall the process. These consisted of nailing laths and tarred paper over the glassless windows and clearing such debris as could be easily handled. The high point for a 5 year old was that we were made swords out of the repair laths and could indulge our fantasies.

It was around this time that I got to know my Father. He had worked with Mr. Baird on Television before the war and had entered the RAF working on the development of RADAR and keeping the various stations around the south coast operational. He was posted to be based at Biggin Hill and his yellow food coupons were gratefully received at home. Not that it made a lot of difference as you were still only entitled to 2 ounces of butter a week!.

Food memories were are mainly the special recipes tried out by my Mother. Dried egg powder in everything, how to bake a cake with no eggs, and the special orange juice and cod liver oil given to children in those old square medicine bottles. And of course the dash to the shops when the word got out that they had some fish or similar. There was a special moment when a food parcel arrived from America with things I’d never seen before — cocoa, chocolate etc.

The end of the war in Europe came and was celebrated by numerous street parties. Great excitement all round with bonfires lit in the middle of the road and people getting together to share what little they had — a far cry from today’s society based on materialism and where self is paramount.

Peter Forward

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