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"This story was submitted to the People's War site by a volunteer from ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Berkshire's Action Desk on behalf of George Corbett and has been added to the site with his permission. George fully understands the site's terms and conditions"

My first evacuation lasted for only about three months, before I was brought home again. I never did ask the reason why, too young to even wonder why, I suppose. I have always assumed that it was because my parents missed my happy, smiling face about the house. Nevertheless, it wasn’t too long before I was off again. I was once more placed on a train, complete with gas mask and name tag and transported to Sutton Stalham, on the edge of the Norfolk Broads and I enjoyed this place so much more than the first. There were pigs in a sty at the bottom of the garden [I had never seen a live pig before] and the only Loo was sited next to them The pigs were very friendly, they would always come up to say ‘hello’ when a visit to the toilet was necessary.

While in Norfolk I had my first taste of fishing. Mr. Streeter, the male member of my temporary guardians, made me a fishing rod complete with a bent pin for the hook. I don’t remember ever actually catching anything but I had wonderful enjoyment in the trying and, if I did nothing else, I at least provided swimming lessons for the worms that I used as bait. In a way I found it a great disappointment when my Dad came to collect me after an even shorter time had elapsed, than with my first evacuation experience. I must have been sadly missed at home I suppose, especially as Dad had an apparently nightmare journey when he came to get me. He had had to walk from Oulton to Sutton Stalham, a distance of about eleven miles, because there was no transport and he also had one hell of a problem trying to find the way because all of the signposts had been removed, in case of invasion. The return journey was made much easier for us though, as Mr. Streeter very kindly ran us into Oulton in his van.

My sojourn in Norfolk proved to be the last of my evacuation exploits and, looking back on it now, I suppose that it must have been a bit of a waste of time. It appeared, to me in later years, that I must have been put in ‘places of safety’ during the so-called ‘phoney’ war, during the latter months of 1939 and the early part of 1940. What I distinctly remember is, that I was well and truly back home in time for the Blitz and the Battle of Britain. That was where the ‘fun’ really began.

Naturally enough, I did not associate the almost continuous crump of exploding bombs with death and destruction. The cacophony of noise all around as the sharp crack of ack-ack [anti-aircraft] guns, together with the raucous wail of air-raid sirens and the wail of fire engines, joined in with the exploding bombs and the falling buildings to provide my perverse delight. It was all so different, so exciting and so very difficult to explain. It was not only a sound show, it was very, very, visual. Searchlights threw their far-reaching beams into the night sky, often with an aeroplane illuminated in the bright patch of light that was formed as two or more beams crossed. Buildings, both relatively close and in the distance, illuminated the skyline as they burned; there was smoke everywhere and there was so much movement all around. Is it any wonder that, to a small child, the whole scenario enacted before him provided wonderfully wild, exciting and absolutely fantastic viewing and listening? It was the fireworks display to end all firework displays.

On most nights during that eventful period we made tracks to either the nearby public shelter, or to one of the local tube stations. The public shelter was a large, concrete labyrinth. Dimly lit it seemed, to my little legs, to stretch for miles and one could well imagine coming suddenly face-to-face with the Minotaur. Especially when, with the local ‘gang’, I used to play in the shelter once the Blitz was over and the shelter was not used nearly as much.

On the whole, I preferred to shelter in the underground tube station, whichever station it was. I found the tube station far friendlier than the public shelter and I think that Mum and Dad did too. The camaraderie there was terrific. Everyone talked to everyone else and, totally ignoring the ominous sounds from the outside world, sing-song’s would break out. All of the good old London favourites would be treated to a tremendous if, as I suspect, a rather non-tuneful rendering. It was in that underground station that I first learned the words to such classics as ‘Roll out the Barrel’, ‘Enery the Eighth’, Knocked ‘em in the old Kent Road and many more.

It was just as spectacular during the daytime because the bombing of the city was virtually non-stop, the only difference being that barrage balloons could be seen instead of the searchlights and that we took refuge in the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden, instead of in the public shelters. The big advantage of this was that by sticking my head out of the doorway of the Anderson, I could see what was going on overhead in far greater detail than was possible at night.

The blitz and the Battle of Britain was enacted right over my head as I watched enchanted from, I suppose in my parents eyes my vulnerable vantage point, [although they didn’t try too hard to stop my interest in what was going on — bless them] a sky full of aeroplanes. I was unaware that there were different types and that some were ‘theirs’ and some were ‘ours’, I didn’t even know that there was ‘theirs’ and ‘ours’. What I do remember is that there were lots and lots of dark aeroplanes that looked quite big and, darting in and out among them, there were a few of what looked like silver streaks. I assume that what I could see were the fighters, Spitfires, Hurricanes etc. creating havoc in amongst the heavy bombers of the Luftwaffe.

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