大象传媒

I was six years old when the Second World War began, and eleven when it ended.
Some things during that period were hazy, but other times very vivid.

I suppose my first recollection was seeing my stepfather building a shelter in the garden. It took days to dig a deep enough hole for the shelter. When finished completely, it was hardly noticeable, as the roof, (which was covered by turf), was level with the ground, and apart from the sharp decline to the door of the shelter, one would assume it was just an ordinary garden.

Great pains were taken to furnish this refuge. Mattresses stacked ready for use. A folding table and chairs, blankets and pillows etc. My two brothers and I loved this hideout, and were only allowed to play in it if our parents were present. I couldn鈥檛 wait for the opportunity to sleep in it. It seemed an age, but I suppose for the adults it came too soon, when German bombers once more invaded our skies.

I remember my excitement grew when we children were hustled to the shelter, where much to my dismay, my brothers got their first. Mattresses were laid on the wooden floor, and at last our very first night in the hideout.

We could hear the bombers overhead, but when the explosions pounded around us, our parents whisked us back into the house, and down the cellar steps, where we had previously sheltered in the raids over Swansea. We never used the shelter from that night. Somehow the cellar steps was to be our sanctuary until the end of the war.

We had to take our gas masks everywhere, including school. On this particular day, when I arrived at the school, I realised that I had left mine behind. Unperturbed, I sailed through the day glad to be relieved of the cumbersome object.

On my way home, I noticed a crowd had gathered. Being nosey, I had to investigate, not realising that this was a pre-organised test for gas mask users. Suddenly, my eyes began to stream and I found it hard to breathe. I tried to escape the onslaught, to no avail. In desperation I dashed through an open door of the nearest house, and buried my face into clothes hanging on a hall stand. Eventually when the tear gas had disappeared, I arrived home to a reprimand from my mother. Needless to say I never forgot my gas mask again.

It is amazing how quickly rumours circulate the playground. One morning, one of our class mates was missing from her usual desk. 鈥淗er grandmother was killed last night鈥�. We were all horrified. 鈥淗ow did it happen?鈥� We listened intently as the strange event was explained to us by a very imaginative child.

鈥淒uring the raid,鈥� she said, 鈥淭wo wardens told everyone to leave the house, which was in danger of collapsing. All agreed, except the grandmother, who still in bed, refused point blank to leave. Each time the wardens asked her to leave, she said.鈥� No!鈥�. 鈥� There was nothing else they could but lift her off the bed. And then HER HEAD FELL OFF鈥�. YES, we believed every word!!

I remember the three night鈥檚 blitz well. Beautiful moonlit nights, ideal for the bombers. We had a cat, who would hide under the sideboard twenty minutes before the air raid warning, and then re-emerge twenty minutes before the all clear siren, so we always knew when the bombers were coming. My grandmother, who never ever went to bed, would have the cellar ready for us, with pillows and hot drinks, before waking each one of us.

When the all clear siren sounded, we would leave the house, in our pyjamas and dressing gowns, to view our area for bomb damage. I remember being amazed at the people wandering the street, to see our favourite shops burning. And there were many. I remember walking up Phillips Parade, near the old Swansea Hospital, but being turned back because of an un-exploded bomb. Little did I know then that this un-exploded bomb would cause terror to my mother, grandmother and a friend.

It was in the day time that they heard a rushing sound. Knowing of the un-exploded bomb near to them, and assuming that it was exploding, they fell to their knees and crawled to the cellar door, where all three tried to squeeze through, and inevitably got stuck. Each tried to speak, but pure terror struck them dumb as the bomb exploded, blowing in the doors and windows. Later when they were recalling this incident, there were tears in their eyes, not of fear now, but laughter, as they surprisingly saw the funny side of it.

There were other incidents, but all too hazy, but I do remember the end of the war.

I would often sing, 鈥淭here鈥檒l Be Blue Birds Over鈥�, just before I went to sleep. To me it was a prayer that the war would end, and now, being eleven years of age, the reality of war had become more intense. I remember my mother waking me up. Thinking it was another raid, I protested at leaving my warm bed for those cold cellar steps.

鈥淭he war is over鈥�, she said.

We all went to the guildhall where crowds of people had gathered. Some were singing the very song I had sung that night. Then fireworks, which actually terrified me. Maybe they reminded me of the bombing, who knows?

The following morning I viewed the un-used shelter in the garden, now feeling too old at eleven to play in such a dusty place, and wondered what would happen to it.
We had to wait for my stepfather鈥檚 return from the Army before this outcast was dismantled, and the garden restored to its original state.

Memories! No one can take these from us; and though our children and grandchildren (we hope) will never experience wartime in our country, it is good that we enlighten them to the realities of war.

My experiences of wartime as a child is nothing compared to the people who lost their lives and those on the battlefield.
But I hope that our future generation will learn from our experiences that war is not a game, but an ugly and destructive sore on humanity.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.