大象传媒

This story was submitted to the Peoples War site by Jas from Global Information Centre Eastbourne and has been added to the website on behalf of Mr Bradley with his permission and he fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions

The first German air raids were planned to take out our air-force. Croydon was the major air-field where many of our spitfires were based and about 10 miles from where we lived. One night we were woken by the wail of sirens and the distant thump of explosions.

I heard my parents talking and shouts in the street outside. Everyone was out in the road looking skywards. My sister and I joined them in our nighties, leaving baby Phil soundly sleeping through it all. The whole horizon was bright red, like a gigantic sunset with black columns of smoke rising into it.

Every now and then another burst of fire would rise to join the expanding arc of colour. A shocked silence had descended on the street except for a few low murmurings from the crowd.

鈥淭hey鈥檝e got Croydon.鈥� 鈥淭hey鈥檒l come for the city now.鈥� 鈥淲onder how many spitfires we鈥檝e got left.鈥�

Blue uniformed air-raid wardens wearing tin hats arrived and gradually dispersed the crowd.

鈥淐ome along now, get back to bed, they鈥檝e dropped their load, there won鈥檛 be much more of it to-night.鈥�

Shortly afterwards the 鈥楢ll Clear鈥� siren sounded, but even as a small child I could feel the sense of doom as my parents and neighbours made their way indoors.

The government of the day had prepared for enemy attack as best they could. For months, gangs of laborours, men who were too young, too old or medically unfit for the army, had descended on back gardens, dug deep holes and lined them with hoops of corrugated iron. The Anderson Air-raid shelters probably saved a few lives from bombs, but were so damp and ill ventilated that anyone sleeping in them on a regular basis was in danger of contracting tuberculosis.
But, in those early days of the War, we made them as comfortable as we could, constructed wooden camp beds against the asbestos walls and hung candle lanterns from the bolts in the arched roof.

My mother marched the family to the back garden every time a siren sounded, but my father, who already suffered from a debilitating chest condition, never joined us after the first night, vowing that if he was going to be bombed he would rather die indoors in his own bed.

By this time the War Office had devised a scheme to confuse the enemy air-craft. Giant silver balloons were constructed from material which deflected light and radar signals. Flotillas of these 鈥榖arrage balloons鈥� were floated over sensitive areas to disguise them and were anchored to the ground by heavy steel struts. We had a huge gas tower in our locality with its own barrage balloon station.

One day there was a great commotion, several soft thumps, people shouting as tiles flew off our roof and crashed onto the garden path. My mother screamed as she rushed to push Phil in his pram out of range.
There had been a very high wind and somehow, one of the balloons had broken its moorings. It now bounced from roof-top to roof-top, dragging its cable across gardens, taking out our neighbour鈥檚 fence and terrifying their dog.

We watched fascinated as the big silver monster lost its shape as the gas escaped, became floppier and floppier and eventually, with a loud sigh, came to rest, fortunately, in the local playground. All the kids gathered round it in fascination, slightly sad to witness the demise of that familiar giant which had protected a small piece of our vulnerable sky. Soon the wardens arrived again, rolled it up and carried it off, hopefully to be repaired and live another day.
And now, the government decided it was time to evacuate all the children out of London.
First of alt we had to be issued with gas masks and taught how to use them in case of a gas attack, which apparently, was a legitimate risk at one time. This was done through our school. Every child was given a square cardboard box labelled either 鈥榮mall鈥�, medium, or 鈥榣arge鈥� according to the perceived size of your head.

The masks, evil smelling rubber cages with a long snout and metal filter at the chin end and a Perspex visor over the eyes, were stretched tightly over the face from chin to forehead and fastened with braces and a metal clip behind the head, pulling hair and skin and threatening to throttle the wearer.

At the first breath the visor misted up completely, rendering the wearer quite blind. Gas Mask Practice became a favourite game, especially in families where there were babies, because theirs took the form of a red Mickey Mouse head into which the baby was strapped, the novelty and fun of it all disguising the more sinister reason for their use. During 鈥榩ractice鈥� children milled about crashing their snouts into each other and laughing so much that the visors fogged up completely and no-one could be recognised.

Although routinely practiced, I doubt whether the vast majority of the general public could have donned these grotesque safeguards if the necessity had ever arisen, but they had to be carried at all times and children and grown ups alike would be challenged by air-raid wardens in the street, if seen without them.

The difficult organisation of evacuating several thousand children out of London necessitated the issue of Identity Cards. These carried a photo and details of your name, address and age. On THE DAY, groups of children, suitably tagged, stood on various station platforms, sick with apprehension, wrapped up in their best coats and their mothers鈥� arms, waiting for the trains which would take them to THE COUNTRY. Our family was lucky. Our mother was coming with us.
Each 鈥榚vacuee鈥� child carried a small suit-case containing school clothes, a change of underwear, Wellington boots and a favourite toy. No- one knew how long we were going for, or exactly where. Everyone prayed we could return soon.

The train was crowded; our mother stood in the corridor with some of the 鈥榤inders鈥�, young women who had no responsibilities and could be spared for the new task of looking after frightened and often lonely children, separated from their own families at a time of insecurity and danger. Seeing all those white faces my mother started to sing. 鈥楾here鈥檒l be blue-birds over the white cliffs of Dover鈥�, 鈥楻oll out the Barrel鈥� and 鈥楬ang out the washing on the Siegfried Line鈥� soon rang out, and with my sister conducting the children, the train steamed and whistled it鈥檚 way to a small village called Aynsford in Kent.

On arrival we all disembarked uncertainly onto the platform and huddled in nervous groups waiting to be collected by our 鈥榟osts鈥� 鈥� families who had been directed by the War Office to take evacuees from London. It was to become an uncomfortable relationship for many of them, simple country folk, suspicious of the often rough, street-wise kids forced into their midst. But most of them did their best to welcome the strangers, glad that their own community was safe from the air-raids and willing to share their farm produce which swelled the meagre allocation of the ration books.

Our family was allocated to a Mr. and Mrs. Major who sent a 鈥榃orzel Gummage鈥� farm labourer to meet us 鈥� with a horse and flat back cart. 鈥榃orzel鈥� had several teeth missing, the gaps making space for pieces of straw which he chewed constantly. His fuzzy hair poked out from under a knitted cap and his over-size gum boots squelched musically as he strode about, heaving our suitcases onto the cart and handing my mother with my brother Phil in arms up beside him.

After a wordless journey we rode through a high, double barred wooden gate into a muddy cobbled yard, flanked by several stables and a large unidentified flint and stone building from which alarming moo-ing sounds were coming. Dozens of red chickens and some huge, dangerous looking white birds honked and flapped noisily as we entered.
With a 鈥渨hoaaa鈥� from Worzel, the big, heavy cart-horse came to a slow stop outside a stout oak door.

Almost at once a lady appeared in the porch way. She was rosy cheeked and large bossomed, wore ample cotton skirts down to her ankles, sensible flat shoes, a wide brimmed floppy hat and a big smile. No-one could have looked more re-assuring as she stretched out her hand to our mother and her arms to us kids.

鈥淲elcome鈥� she said, and thus began a summer which diluted the anxieties of War-time and introduced city-kids to the eccentricities and enlightenment of country life.

That first night we were invited to stay in the 鈥楤ig House鈥� before being transferred to our allocated home which was to be somewhat of a surprise when we saw it the following day. However, for now we were ushered into a huge bedroom with a double bed and a cot.

For the first time in our lives we saw a bedroom floor completely covered in thick, warm carpet. The big bay window with small diamond shaped panes of glass looked out over open countryside to ploughed fields and green hedges. Flowered curtains hung from ceiling to floor. The bed was covered in a matching counterpane and the cot contained fluffy blankets and white pillows.

To us it looked like a mansion, and later turned out to be just that, as we were now in the home of the local 鈥榮quire鈥�.
After a real farm supper of home-made bread, thick ham, pickled onions and cheese and a cup of hot cocoa, seated around a long, scrubbed wooden table, we were ready for bed.
Early next morning we were awoken by the sound of choking.

Baby Phil had managed to climb out of his cot and had discovered several moth balls which were spread around the edges of the carpet. The natural instincts of babies to put all new objects into their mouths nearly poisoned him from camphor and it was only after my mother had stuck her fingers down his throat and he had been heartily sick, that she was confident that he would survive. Lesson one on the dangers of our new life.

After breakfast of newly laid eggs and thick slices of that farmhouse bread again, spread so thick with butter it would have been a whole week鈥檚 ration, we were led by Mrs. Major through a small orchard to an open space beyond. On it was parked what looked like a large removal van. But it had obviously not moved for some time, for its wheels were rusted and sunk half-way down into the soft ground. At the back it had a double door, one of which was open.

To our utmost surprise, inside the van was fitted out with bunk beds down one side and a long upholstered seat the other. There was a tall black paraffin heater throwing out meagre warmth from the little holes on the top of it which could be opened or closed to control the degree of heat and the toxic fumes which rose from it.

Mrs. Major explained that we would be living in this van for a few days until we were found accommodation with one of the local villagers. I felt my mother鈥檚 despair as we all climbed aboard and Mrs. Major pointed out our toilet which was a small hut with a corrugated iron roof standing in a nearby field.

I was the first to try it out. Clad in my Wellington boots which were to become essential wear throughout our stay, I splashed my way through the muddy field. The outside toilet was cold and dark and smelly, with squares of damp newspaper hanging on a nail inside the rickety door.

I feared that it was probably inhabited by large hairy black spiders, like the ones I had seen in our air-raid shelter and hurried to leave there.

But emerging into the field I found even more terrifying monsters. Huge, black and white furry animals surrounded the toilet. Munching slowly, with massive pink tongues turning over their mouthfuls and dripping green saliva down their loose necks, they regarded me solemnly from massive black eyes and nudged me curiously with wet brown noses.

Screaming hysterically, I returned to the toilet. Very shortly, a tall herdsman who had witnessed my encounter came to my rescue. From the safety of his high shoulders, and with his assurance that these creatures would not harm me, I was introduced to his prize herd of Frisian cows.

Later he took me to the flint and stone building in the farmyard which was, apparently, the milking shed. Watching those gentle animals tolerating their udders being pinched until their milk ran out into buckets, I learned a healthy respect for cows which I have never lost, and began to realise that much of what we eat and drink began on farms in that mysterious countryside.

Our first night in the van was not without incident either. The bunks were in three tiers. My mother put Phil on the top one, him being the smallest and lightest, with me and my sister Cath top to toe on the underneath one and herself nearest the floor, as she was the last to bed.

She should have known better considering Phil鈥檚 nocturnal restlessness. But it wasn鈥檛 really his fault that the top bunk was so fragile it collapsed in the night, sending him down on top of me and Cath and then the whole three of us descending onto my mother. We all rolled out on the floor.

With great presence of mind, to dilute our fright, my mother started to giggle and we all ended up helpless with laughter. That incident remained a family joke for years afterwards and was typical of my mother seeing the funny side of everything or making the best of what she had to endure, through those difficult years and beyond.

Living in that van for several weeks was a great adventure for us kids for we were able to climb into the driving seat and pretend to drive off round the world, my sister tugging at the long gear lever with its great black knob, whilst I heaved at the massive steering wheel. Years later, I achieved my ambition, sporned then, to travel the world in a campervan - but that is another story.

鈥楽quire鈥� and Mrs. Major did a great job of finding temporary homes with farm workers for several London evacuees and we soon formed a new circle of friends. We were eventually billeted with a Mr. and Mrs. Black and their daughter Rosie who took me and Cath on long walks in the countryside, picking hazel nuts and blackberries and gathering elderflowers for making into wine.

Wandering in shady lanes or running through green meadows we never needed to carry those dreaded gas-masks and the smell of wild roses and stinging nettles, the warmth of sun on your back with your face in grass, the low moo-ing of cows and caw-caw of rooks, lessened our home sickness.

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