大象传媒

Earliest Days.

I was a pre-war baby, though only by about six months, and the 'phony war' had been on for about fifteen months when, at seven p.m. on the twelth of December 1940 the wail of a siren warned Sheffielders to take to their air raid shelters. After five minutes the siren noise gave way to the sound of German bombers and our anti-aircraft guns setting up a barrage, and after a further five minutes fire- bombs rained down, providing targets for the high explosive bombs that were to follow. Being an ideal night for such an operation - a hard frost and bright moonlight- it was perhaps in our favour that Sheffield, built on its Rome- like seven hills is such a sprawling city. This caused more of a scattering of bombs as opposed to a greater concentration that may or may not have been the worse for us.
It must have been terrible for my mother who, along with my grandparents and myself huddled together in a little cupboard under the stairs whilst bombs fell all around wreaking havoc and devastation everywhere. 'Safest place in the house' Dad, who was in the fire service would say, though I think Mum's undoubted volley of prayers was a more effective protection. Later at about eleven o'clock the bombing worsened and stayed like that until one a.m.
Several properties in the Sharrow/Hunters Bar area were hit, the nearest to us being a house on Walton Road. The force of this blast smashed every window in our house and many others in the surrounding streets. All over Sheffield buildings were burning and bomb craters made many roads impassable, the Moor and Bramall Lane taking a severe pounding. Bombs had been falling EVERY MINUTE until about four o'clock when they lessened to every five minutes before finally ceasing altogether.
Is it possible for excessive anxiety to be transferred from parents to their children at times like this? Could this then cause the child to grow up with a nervous disposition, cowering at loud noises and worrying over the most trivial things? Not in this case. Later my parents told me that inspite of being lifted from my cot in the middle of the night, and inspite of all Hitler's hellish efforts, THIS twenty-one month old baby slept right through the blitz with three adults in a tiny cupboard under the stairs at 41, Wadbrough Road. The first night of the blitz was over, ending the phony war and catapulting ordinary Sheffield civilians right into the front line.

One of my earliest recollections was a time when bombing was expected and we went to Holmesfield to stay with some distant relatives who had a farm on Cowley Lane and whose actual surname was Pitchfork! No way could you be a tailor or a fishmonger with a name like that. The farm was beautiful; years later I was to spend many weeks of summer holidays there; but this time we were taking refuge from the Luftwaffe. Although VERY young I clearly remember NOT wanting to go to a strange bed in a strange house that clear, moonlit night. Then Eugene, my cousin who was a bit older than me, came in to kindly lend me his teddy bear. One eyed and torn eared, it was the ugliest bear I'd ever seen - so I cried louder than ever as I flung it to the other side of the bedroom! I don't remember spending any more nights at Holmesfield for a few years after THAT performance.

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