大象传媒

One day, in the summer of 1943 when I was 10, I was shot at by a German fighter pilot.

I lived in Brighton, right opposite the Brighton Station turntable, where the steam engines turned before making the return journey to Victoria Station.

On this particular day, I had come home from school for dinner. My mother asked me to go up to the bakers to get our bread ration.

Just as I was going out of the door, the air raid siren started, I asked if I should still go; Mum said it would be alright as the siren had only just gone, so off I went.

The bakers was only a short distance from the house so I wasn't too worried.

With the bread safely collected I made my way home. As I arrived at the house, there was a loud bang and thick black smoke was everywhere, I looked up and saw a plane coming through the darkness.

Now, our house had a basement with steps going up to the next floor, as flashes appeared from the wings of the plane, I threw myself under these steps and immediately heard a rat-a-tat-tat. I was crying and shaking and felt fear like never before.

When the all clear sounded, my mother and I surveyed the damage. A bomb had been dropped on Brighton Station and as if that wan't close enough, there were two rows of machine gun bullets in the steps which had given me shelter just a few minutes before.

I was lucky to get away with my life and it just shows, that the enemy didn't care who they shot at.

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