大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War website by Plymouth Library Services on behalf of Jean Walker. The author fully understands the terms and conditions of the website.

My childhood was spent in the awesome shadow of World War Two. Our family, Mum, Dad, elder sister, me and baby brother, lived in Pym Street, a stone's throw from the Naval Dockyard in Devonport, a prime target for enemy bombers.

On 20 March 1941 the Luftwaffe unleashed 31,528 incendiary and explosive bombs on Plymouth. Our house was badly damaged, and we were moved to Albert Road, even closer to the Dockyard. A few months later we were awakened in the early hours of the morning and ordered to leave our house because a large mine had landed at the back of us.

We were not allowed to take anything with us, except our coats. We were taken to the moors, where a huge marquee had been erected as temporary accommodation. My father was a labourer and a well known local boxer. The purses from his fights enabled us to live in comparative comfort, and we had some nice possessions, all left in our house in Albert Road. When we were eventually allowed to return home, it was to find that we had been looted and hardly had anything left.

We were then moved to a requisitioned house in St Budeaux, which we were to share with an aunt, uncle and four cousins. But, wonder of wonders, we had a bathroom, and our very own Anderson Shelter in the back yard. I remember that the very real possibility of being blown to Kingdom Come never did frighten Mother as much as the spiders and snails in the damp darkness of that shelter.

At this time Dad was called up and joined the army. The children were being evacuated to Newquay. I refused t go, but my sister, always the more adventurous, decided to go. Mother went to visit her after a while, and promptly brought my sister home again, with her head full of lice and her body covered in sores.

It was then decided that we should be sent to Bristol, to stay with Dad's sister Violet and her husband Tom. They had never had children, but Auntie took her responsibilities very seriously. We had to sit, every night, with our heads bowed over newspapers whilst she wielded the nit comb (with rather too much vigour, I always thought).

Auntie Vi was an usherette in the local cinema, and she smuggled us in on many an evening, claiming that at least she knew where we were. Consequently, we watched the most unsuitable films. As mindful a she was about our physical welfare, she gave little thought to our delicate sensibilities! To this day, I associate Zombies with Auntie Vi.

We were still in Bristol when peace was declared. On that day, it seemed as if the whole adult population emabarked on a mammoth pub crawl. We were taken along, and we were left outside, with glasses of lemonade, to watch the celebrations. Bonfires were lit on every spare piece of land. Anything that would burn was being dragged out of shelters, and people were running around laughing and crying, almost hysterical in their joy and relief.

A few days later we were being waved a tearful goodbye at the station as we left Bristol for home. As Britain picked itself up and dusted itself off, shortages were everywhere. And so began a new era in our young lives; out of the dangers of war, and into the deprivations of peace.

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