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My war started on the 1st September as my father was a pilot in the RAF. We were on holiday in Skegness and were meant to be going for a fortnight but he got called back after only two days. I was so cross that our holiday was over! My father left straight away, he came back occasionally and would bring friends with him but they were rarely the same as they were often killed. He never recovered from his friends dying. One night in February 1941 I was sitting in front of the fire drinking some milk when the air raid went off — there were bombs and our house was cut in half. My family were fine — my brother slept right through it — although my hair was burnt off! We slept in a friend’s house for six weeks before moving in down the road. Later in 1944 we moved to South Wales, to a lovely seaside place. There were thousands of American troops stationed there. They were super to us. They threw parties and sometimes gave us a pound to buy cakes. It was sad when they left because of D-Day. On VE Day it was wonderful; there were lots of parties and bonfires. It was not a surprise to us as children that we had won; we had never doubted it.

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