大象传媒

The year was 1941
The Blitz was all around
With gaping holes, no windows seen
Devastation to be found.

In the months prior to this
We learned to live in fear
When listening to Lord Haw Haw
And tales from men held dear.

The daily chores still had to be done
Babies washed, the family fed
In spite of several shortages
With dried and not boiled egg.

The sirens sent dread right through us
They gave us the signal to flee
Under beds, shelts or parapets
Wherever one happened to be.

Gas masks had to be carried
No matter when nor where
We learned to quickly slip them on
And laugh at people's stares.

The rationing of foodstuffs
Became a way of life.
Butter, sugar, tea and flour
Carefully measured to lessen strife.

Sweets and chocolates were unheard of
Unless we happened to know
A GI based at Warrington
With a girlfriend on our row.

Each night at six o'clock
With sandwiches at the ready
Mum would march us to the Town Hall
To sleep on mattress, awaiting Jerry.

Dad was in the Home Guard
With guns made of wood
He was in charge of the stirrup pump
Dad's Army making good.

Then early in the morning
All sights met the eyes
Buildings shattered, debris everywhere
Chaos remained for a time.

But life still had to go on.
People had to bed
Go to work; man the factories
To back up our fighting men.

We learned a lot in those days
To consider others was one
To offer help to those in need
And comfort those who mourned.

We shared what little we did have
We lived from day to day
We also sang and laughed a lot
Aided by Vera and Tommy Handlay

I sincerely pray we never
Experience this again
Let's hope the world has learned something
But, then again, have they?

I vividly remember the Blitz although I was only seven years old in 1941. I lived in Pickering Street, Hulme, Manchester with my mum, dad, brother (born in 1939) and sister (born in 1941). Because of the bombardments my sister, Monica, was born at Blackpool and I recall the coach trip to see her for the very first time.

Dad worked in Trafford Park as a fitter and turner at Knowlesly Cast Metal Company, who made parts for fire engines, and Mum looked after us all. Life for me revolved around going to school.

I remember being a bridesmaid at a neighbour's wedding, they were called Thredder and their daughter married a soldier. I remember the same woman crying in the air raid shelter when the bombing was at its heaviest, wondering if she would ever see her new husband again.

I though my dad was the greatest - he was in charge of the stirrup pump in our street. Every so often, with people watching, he would practice erecting it and give a demonstration.

Soon the sirens became a way of life - 'hurry grab your gas masks', 'hide under the desk' or 'quick, into the shelter'. Everyone bundled up with pillows and blankets, nervously listening to the bombs going off all around.

At one stage we used to go every night at 6pm to the Hulme Town Hall and with hundreds of others sleep on mattresses until the next morning. Mum prepared a flask and sandwiches and Dad would meet us from work.

When that too was hit, we took cover in Aunty Mary and John Moore's cellar just around the corner from home (Ribston Street). On one of the worst nights of the Blitz, the house next door was hit, and in darkness we gingerly picked our way through the rubble to the shelter in Pickering Street. Manchester was ablaze that night - searchlights picked up enemy planes; there were fires everywhere. People were very, very frightened.

The next day, our eyes met utter devastation. I remember sweeping the footpath with a small child's brush, and passers-by laughing at this little girl doing her bit to clear up Manchester.

I remember the shouts that went up: 'Bananas are in the shops!' Mum and offspring queued for hours. She left the bananas on the pram canopy and by the time she had shopped elsewhere we had scoffed the lot.

I remember being evacuated on my own to Great Harwood and feeling very lonely and deserted.

During the worst of the bombings we moved to Birchvale, near Hayfield, with another family, with whom we shared a two-bedroomed cottage. There were six old stone cottages adjacent and only one outside long drop toilet; no electricity or gas, but according to Mum the peace of mind was well worth the lack of amenities.

One day a stray German bomber flew very low over Birchvale and I vividly remember seeing the pilot as I was on top of the moor. I could quite clearly see his goggles and watched him turn his head to look at us waving to him - we had never seen a plane before. Dad screamed for me to get down and the villagers were out with their 'blackbird' guns, trying to bring the plane down. It dropped a bomb on a neighbour's house, killing a girl who was playing piano at the time.

We stayed in Birchvale and moved back to Manchester in 1944, and enjoyed the street parties celebrating the end of the war not long afterwards. Then life took on a normalcy again, some men returned, others not, and life went on.

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