大象传媒

Before the war was actually declared, I have recollections of my parents having conversations about Mr Chamberlain who was the Prime Minister at the time; I picked up on those pieces of speech, the fact that my parents were not terribly impressed with the gentleman. Whether he handled his task dealing with Adolf Hitler using the necessary skill and aplomb was not for me to judge, as at 7 years old I was politically ignorant.

Of course at that tender age I had no idea of the implications of 'war' at all. My only impressions was of a heavy air of depression within our household, and my Mother being unusually quiet, (she was rather an ebullient character) and usually went through her day singing, chattering with a neighbour or playing the piano, when she was not actually working in the ground floor music shop of which she was the Manager.

I was playing in the garden and Mother lifted the window and called to me, I thought from her expression that I had done something wrong, then as I drew near and looked up to the window I could see that she was crying and that tears were running down her face. She said "Carol, war has been declared, and Daddy will have to go away and fight in the war, as he will be 'called up'.

I left the garden and went upstairs to try to help Mum, with what was obviously even to me, an upsetting problem. Mum was very unhappy and she explained to me the fact that Dad had to 'join up' by law, as he was then a young man, and that he was expected to defend his country and of course his family. Mum also tried to explain about the business of war and this man called Hitler who was a threat to peace loving nations, without frightening me with too much detail. Which with hindsight was probably difficult for her, as a youngster is always full of questions, especially when one does not wish to elaborate.

A couple of weeks passed and Mum and I walked to the railway station to see Dad off, he had a suitcase with him, but it was not a very large one, not like when we went off on holidays. Dad was going to a reception camp and then on to Catterick, where he would be selected for the work that he was given to do, and then trained. His train disappeared along the track and Mum cried a lot. When I asked why she was crying, she said to me "you don't understand dear, but at the moment we do not know when we shall see him again or whether he will be comfortable and properly fed."

The weeks that followed passed fairly normally except that we were issued with ration books and it became evident that there were going to restrictions on our lives such as never before in my lifetime.

My Father came home on leave and he cycled all the way from Ringshall where he was in training camp, he had 48 hour leave pass and of course we were so happy to have him back for a while to hear all about what he had been doing. When the time came for him to leave to get back to camp and there was approximately a 50 mile journey, it was pouring with rain and blowing a gale. I have a dreadful memory of him cycling down the high street , with his cape billowing out behind him, and the rain lashing down, and the thought of him having to cycle all that distance in such awful weather just about broke our hearts, but he was determined to do it. He was happy just to be with us for the short time of his leave.

Unfortunately at a later date, about 14 months my Father was sent on a mission within England, and he had a 'row ' with a 10 ton truck (military) and put up his foot to save himself as he was riding a motor bike, this resulted in a bad crash and he was injured, to the extent that he had a dislocated compound fracture of the ankle, and ended up in Hill End Hospital, in St Albans, where we used to visit him every Sunday, going on a long journey on a bus. He actually was invalided out of the army after that as he was told he would never walk properly again, and might just make it to the local pub and back. Dad's company in the army were shipped out to the Middle East shortly after his admission to hospital, but Dad one might say was lucky and of course did not go to war.

It was about this time that there were rather secret mumblings about the RAF camp which was situated at the top of the town,
it had always been there and we were well acquainted with the blue uniforms, as the men from the camp were well integrated with the townspeople, and we often saw them shopping and going about the daily business. Also, particularly on Armistice Day when they parade in full uniform with the Central Band and the select group of the Squadronaire's who were based at the camp. My awareness of them at that time was because there were dances held at the camp and the Squadronaire's always played on those occasions. Jimmy (Sandy) Miller was the leader at that time; Sid Colin was a member, George Chisholm, Archie Craig, and others whose names I cannot remember.

Because the 'band' had extra curricular activities, they were allowed to live outside the camp, and actually lodged with my Grand-Mother, who had a guest house locally, it was quite a usual thing to go into Grandma's house and the place was bursting with music, there were men playing instruments all over the place, as they were rehearsing for the next 'do', they'd be sitting on the stairs with 'cello's and trumpets blazing away, needless to say I thoroughly enjoyed it, we were a very musically orientated family so to hear them rehearsing like that was a double thrill for me. The men were all very kind to me and put up with my inquisitive questions about this and that. I became very frustrated and annoyed because I was not permitted to attend the dances at the camp, because of my age.One had to 18 years old to gain access.

The R.A.F. camp took on a different significance shortly after war was declared in that it became Fighter Command, though many people were unaware of the change of title. Northolt airfield which was previously a civilian airport from whence the Queens flight used to take off became a military airfield and the comings and goings of our fighter planes were controlled from the Fighter Command base.

At the top of our house owing to the design of the roof, there was a small area where there was a fanlight which gave light to our top storey landing and by climbing up onto the roof, which was a rather perilous thing to do, we were able to watch the bombers going out to return the pounding which the Luftwaffe had given us on previous nights.

We counted the aircraft going out on duty and soon learned of the time lag, and when one might expect the aircraft to return, of course our prayers went with them for a safe return.

We so anxiously awaited the return of the squadron hopefully intact but more often than not with some of the planes missing, when there were some missing we waited and waited to see if they came limping home.

Sometimes perhaps almost an hour passed before damaged aircraft could be seen on the horizon and when those finally came into sight with perhaps part of the tail missing, or riddled with bullet holes, or with an engine smoking, maybe not working at all. Heavens knows how we felt for those on board, realizing that they had limped all the way back from Germany and that their fuel was critical as well as their condition.

As they flew over the house the aircraft were very low and we could see figures in the cockpit and gun turrets underneath the aircraft, those gun turrets looked very vulnerable and exposed, it made me cringe to think of how they must feel when over enemy territory, with flak and guns aimed at them and search-lights pinning them to the sky.

Although we lived only 17 miles from central London we were very fortunate in that the town in which I lived was not seriously bombarded by the Germans. Yes, we had bombs dropped and some land mines also there were many occasions when the German bombers would off load their undelivered bombs. Why they were undelivered I don鈥檛 know, maybe some of them did not like the idea of killing innocent people, but I rather think it was perhaps mechanical failure or that the aircraft was damaged in some way and could not deliver, as sometimes the bombs dropped were very haphazard and nowhere near or relative to anything that might be construed as important enough to bomb.
As I was only a young child my cousin who was a couple of years older would take me with him and we would go hunting for shrapnel, very nasty pieces of jagged shell casing from the enemy bombs, after the air raids were over, which we kept as souvenirs, though I have no idea where the pieces are now, I expect my cousin traded them in for bullet cases, at school. When there were dog fights overhead, as did occur because of the fighter command post at the top of the town, which the enemy were always aiming for. There were shell cases from the automatic firing mechanisms from the aircraft. This of course fell to the ground and was spread over wide areas.
I can vividly recall the smell of the concrete bomb shelters which we all had to go to when the sirens went, such a dank, damp place where we sat waiting and wondering if any bombs were going to fall on us and kill us or bury us under piles of concrete and metal.
To sit in these concrete tunnels and try to continue with school work when the sirens went whilst we were at school was practically impossible, even if it were not for the novelty of sitting in a concrete shelter, the lighting was very poor so that we could barely see, and our feet were usually in several inches of cold dirty water, especially if we had had recent rain.
I can still hear the sirens for alert and all clear, which were different, the alert was a long drawn out wailing, rising and falling and continuing for some minutes. Then the anxiously awaited all clear which was a long sustained single wail. I remember the relief that we felt as it happened, because it meant we could continue with our normal lives until the next air raid, and pretend subconsciously that there wasn鈥檛 a war on at all.
Another unpleasant memory was sound of the enemy aircraft overhead at night; the throbbing of the engines and the way we held our breath, until we could no longer hear the engines; sometimes the aircraft were caught in the searchlight beam from the ak-ak battery in the camp and then they looked terribly lonely in the black of the night sky looking more like a moth pinned on velvet, than a machine delivering death, we almost felt sorry for them because they were so vulnerable up there alone.
There were some periods of the war when the night raids were so frequent that there was no point in going to ones normal bed because there were so many alerts and all clears
As my Father had erected an Anderson Shelter in the garden, so we did not go to our proper beds, but went straight to the shelter and bedded down there, so that we might have a less disturbed night maybe. .I recall that the wails of the corrugated shelter used to run with water, which made the bedding wet and my bunk was half way up the wall, so my Father built a gulley and filled it with gravel with a run off to divert the condensation which built up, therefore my bedding stayed dry.
When we went straight down to the shelter, my Mother always took a thermos of tea (no tea bags then) and a container for milk and for sugar, so that we might have a hot drink if we wanted it.
One night a bomb was dropped on a cinema nearby, which really was only a few feet away from our shelter, (as the crow flies) we were in the middle of a raid, but it had been quiet for a long time then this heavy crump! and the ground shook, unfortunately, my Mother at that precise time was pouring tea, and balancing milk and sugar in her lap, of course when the bomb dropped the tea, milk and sugar went up in the air, and inevitably came back down all over the beds underneath me, where Mum and Dad slept. A right mess that was.!
Another time, we had had warnings over the 鈥榳ireless鈥� that the enemy parachutists were being caught, in the area, and that we were to be vigilant and watch for any strange people in our midst.
Again we were in the shelter, which was surrounded by flowers and vegetation; we were encouraged to鈥� dig for victory鈥� and grow our own vegetables, which we did.
It was autumn and all the flowers were dying off; the golden rod in particular was very dry and brittle, and cracked if you moved the stems very far.
One night when we had been asleep for a little while, my Father heard the golden rod being broken and footfalls in the gardens outside the shelter. Alarmed at what might transpire should it be a parachutist, (remembering we were living pretty close to the RAF camp, which was a sensitive place, because amongst other things Eisenhower and other top military people were known to secretly visit the camp. It was always a target for enemy action) My Father called out and said 鈥渨ho鈥檚 there鈥�, no reply...鈥� who鈥檚 there鈥�? Then came a voice,鈥� I am afraid I鈥檝e lost my way Guv鈥檔r, can you help me鈥�? Still very unsure of who it might be my Father took a soft line, and said 鈥淒on鈥檛 worry old chap, I鈥檒l come and help you鈥�, and then launched himself up to ground level, which was very difficult at the best of times since it meant a huge reach up, and of course one was at a great disadvantage, however Dad managed it, and came face to face with the man...To cut a long story short the man turned out to be a potential burglar, who鈥檚 idea was to 鈥榙o鈥� the flats whilst the occupiers were in the shelters. He had the necessity to scale l0鈥檉t walls no matter where he came from so we all knew that whoever he was, he certainly was not in the garden because he was lost I!
He ended up in prison for a year.
The Anderson was the outdoor shelter, and the Morrison was the indoor shelter, which people had to have if they did not have a garden, or if they preferred to stay indoors and take their chance on whether the house had a direct hit.
The winter months were difficult for everyone, and when the sirens went off in the middle of the night, it was really hard to leave our cosy beds, as we were all drowsy and warm, I complained loudly to my Mother. So she made a siren suit for me, which she knitted which consisted of a jumper like top with a hood, and separate trousers which were pulled in at the ankles with elastic, so it was not such a shock to go down the garden when there was snow on the ground and very cold, to go to the shelter. Trouble is that I wanted to wear it all the time in bed, but my Mother wouldn鈥檛 let me as she said I would get too hot and, wouldn鈥檛 feel the benefit of it when I had to get up; I found that hard to understand.
My Mother used to preserve food as much as she could so that we had tomatoes, which were bottled, and had been grown in the garden, runner beans were salted down, which also had been grown by us, eggs were put down in large stoneware pots, I do not know where they came from, but they were good to eat when eggs became scarce Also any fruit which we were able to grow, were also preserved, the basement used to look like a grocers.
There was an instance where my Mother had called for the District Nurse to come and attend me, as my insides were not behaving as they should, and I was dreading the appearance of the nurse and her accompanying paraphernalia, the time when she was supposed to appear came and went, and I really was in a bit of a state of anxiety. There was an air raid and we learned later that this poor District Nurse, had been blown up by a land mine, which had come down in a parachute and lodged itself hidden somewhere, which the nurse in her travels had accidentally set off. Of course we were shocked and sad that such a thing should happen to her, and needless to say within a couple of hours, I no longer had a problem, and my body started behaving properly again.
There are recollections of going out on our bicycles very early in the morning before school and work, to see how many properties had been damaged by the bombs of the previous night also to see if empty properties, of the local nobility (and there were a few) had any fruit or veg in the gardens, which we could use. The occupiers had evacuated to the country, and left a lot of stuff, which was very helpful to us.
On Armistice Day the local military paraded after the church service and were joined by the walking wounded, who had done their bit in the war but had been invalided out of the forces. There was one man Mr Blundell who had been in the RAF, and he was very badly disfigured by being burnt,, he used to be seen around the town a lot, it was so sad because he was never going to be normal again, and he nearly died trying to save his country and all of us in it. Other men on parade had lost limbs or their sight or had been involved in WWI mustard gas attacks at the front, their eyes were badly damaged and they had terrible burns I learnt at a very young age that the people of our country owed the military a very great deal for their personal sacrifice, that we might be free and not repressed by an invader of our shores.

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