大象传媒

It was Christmas 1940. I was a 17 year old RAF apprentice spending my Christmas leave with my Aunt, who was my guardian, and her daughter, Pam in Manchester. The nightly 'Blitz' was at its height.

The German bombers were concentrating on Manchester at that time, and the long, dark winter nights gave them ample opportunity. We did not have an air raid shelter but, being a ground floor flat, we had access to the underground cellar. The three of us, aunt Mabel, cousin Pam and myself surveyed the cellar with particular reference to the gas and water pipes contained within. We decided that, if the building was demolished, we would be trapped and either gassed or drowned. Consequently we were all agreed that, if we stayed in the flat and were killed, it was likely to be a quick death. This, then, was what we decided to do.

Before midnight the air raid sirens had sounded and, shortly after, the dull thud of bombs could be heard exploding in the distance. To keep ourselves distracted, we sat around the dining table and played 鈥楳onopoly,鈥� while the house shook with the force of bombs exploding all around us. If we had been Moslems we would have said, 鈥淎llah was with us鈥� for, even after enduring the ordeal for several days, neither the house nor any of the three of us had received a scratch. In the morning we went out and watched, helplessly but sympathetically, the string of hollow faced families pushing prams and many other hand propelled vehicles, containing the pitiably few possessions that they had managed to salvage from the ruins of their homes.

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