大象传媒

This story was written by Angela's mother, Dobbie Dobinson:

It was 1939, I was 19 years old and had made all the plans for my wedding in September. But at the end of August my fianc茅 Frank, who was a Territorial, was ordered to return to the nearby barracks with full kit. He was a member of the Searchlight Unit and along with his mates was packed aboard a double-decker London bus headed for Cornwall. Their rations for the journey consisted of a small tin of pilchards.

All plans for the wedding had to be cancelled as the future looked very uncertain, but this soon changed on Sunday 3 September at 11am, as we heard Neville Chamberlain telling us in sombre tones that we were, indeed, at war with Germany.

That night the air raid sirens sounded, followed shortly by the all clear. There was a huge sigh of relief, although people of my generation didn't appreciate what war really meant, as our parents did. Some time later, rattles announced the threat of gas, but that also proved to be a false alarm, though at least we had been made aware of what could be in store.

Now the barrage balloons, like great silver elephants on wire cables, appeared all over London, ready to deter enemy aircraft. The blackout became a necessary evil and enthusiastic air raid wardens left you in no doubt as to the consequences of allowing even a chink of light to escape from your windows. These men were eventually to prove real heroes, when raids became a reality. Things like finding your way in the dark without street lighting, as well as rationing, became the norm and we accepted it all because we felt everyone was in the same boat; neighbours became good friends, ready to help.

At last, a very understanding officer arranged for my fianc茅 to be one of a party aboard a large army lorry coming to London to pick up supplies. If he could arrange to get married and return with the lorry next day, it was up to him. The vicar was brilliant and, with just two witnesses, we were finally married at our lovely, local church of St Barnabas. Next morning we had to make a very early start as the lorry was picking my new husband up. It arrived, with much hooting, and all the lads jumped out and insisted on kissing the bride. I waved them off, wondering when I would see Frank again.

Then came Dunkirk and the trains were packed with the wounded servicemen, returning after their horrendous experiences during the retreat. At this time I was visiting my husband, who had been injured when the lorry he was travelling in overturned, crushing his leg beneath the huge searchlight. He was taken to a hospital in Surrey and it was there I saw the plight of his fellow patients, most of whom had been in the retreat at Dunkirk. I saw young men with vacant stares, shell-shocked and suffering loss of memory. The relatives would visit, hoping to receive some kind of recognition, but most of the poor lads were in a world of their own and we could only hope that eventually they would recover. Many never did.

After one visit, I returned home to see the whole sky lit up with a bright orange glow and most of the barrage balloons had disappeared. The pavements were thickly covered with pieces of silver material - all that was left of our friendly balloons. While I had been visiting Frank in Surrey, the first daylight raid had taken place on the London docks and fierce fires raged over a wide area. This left the way well lit for the heavy German bombers, which came back later that night to give the docks and surrounding houses a terrible battering. This time the air raid siren sounded in earnest and we realised it was a taste of what was to come.

I lived in a flat in a large old house in South East London, and I decided that the safest place to be was in the basement, under the stairs. So, after work, I would get into pyjamas and dressing gown and as soon as the siren went I would go down and lie on my little folding camp bed.

Frank was still in hospital and was very worried about me, as he could hear and see the planes making their way to London. The siren would go every night between 7pm and 7.30pm. We got so used to it that one night, when nothing happened, we were really disturbed and wondered what could be in store. The next night we were back to normal.

It was sad, on my way home from work, to see streams of people and their children, with food and blankets, making for the Tube stations, where they could be safe. I once joined two friends, who used the Tubes - I'll never forget it. Everybody shared space and food and once the younger children were settled down, the adults had a singsong, or played cards. With all those people packed along the platform, the air left something to be desired; despite the discomforts, there was no denying the friendly atmosphere, but I never repeated the experience.

Back in my usual shelter I settled down and was suddenly aware one night of the wainscoting apparently moving upwards. The raid had been pretty heavy, but I hadn't heard anything dropped all that near. Next morning I found out what had happened. My house was on top of a hill and further down there was a block of flats built round a large square, which was used as a playground for the children. A shelter had been built under this square for the residents, and it was full up that night when an aerial torpedo went right through it and killed everyone.

My brother-in-law was a fire-fighter called to that terrible scene and he said the whole thing was made worse by the fact that the bomb had burst gas and water mains, so rescue was impossible. That was the tremor I had felt through the hillside. What made it so sad was the relatives of those killed were mostly soldiers and airmen who were given compassionate leave to come home; the flats were intact, but all the damage had occurred in what was meant to be a safe place.

The raids continued each night and the East End of London suffered terribly. My turn finally came when they dropped four landmines by parachute. The first of their kind, I was told that a lot of people, such as air raid wardens and police, were killed unnecessarily as they rushed towards the parachutes, thinking they were German airmen landing. When the mines exploded, the blast took everything above ground level. People were just blown to pieces and trees in the garden were stripped of leaves and branches; many bodies, or parts of them, were resting in any remaining trees. I was covered in plaster and my eyes were full of dust, but I was all in one piece and thankful to be alive. I got out through the basement steps and found the whole scene lit up by a full moon; it was like a battlefield. My friends round the corner took me in - they were all very shaken, but, thankfully, unharmed.

I went back the next morning and found the house looking like a doll鈥檚 house with the front missing - it had been completely blown away.

Staircases were standing and the floor of each flat was intact, but all the contents had been blown out into the garden. I even found two heavy wrought iron wall lights at the end of our very long garden.

With my home gone, there seemed little point in staying in London and I arranged to stay with my mother-in-law in Sussex. But first I determined to rescue my useable possessions and make a claim list for those lost. Amidst the rubble I rescued my lovely cutlery, part of which had been a wedding gift. I found it all and still have it and use it to this day. My clothes were torn to shreds and the wardrobe they had hung in was matchwood. During this time, the worst part was seeing all the body parts being put in bags and carried away by the little carts that came round daily on their grisly mission.

My eyes were giving me quite a bit of trouble as they had been scratched by the pieces of plaster and I don鈥檛 mind admitting I was scared stiff every time the siren went. At this time it wasn't safe even in daylight, because lone planes could come in low and once they had managed to evade the radar on the coast, they could get up to London, drop their load and make a quick getaway. This happened one day and the bomb dropped quite close, taking a house completely to the ground and leaving neighbours' contents pitifully exposed.

The War Office were very good about issuing vouchers for replacing clothes, which in my case was very necessary as I only had my pyjamas. But I found that once I left London, my army allowance was cut from 27 shillings and sixpence a week to 24 shillings. These sums seem laughable in hindsight, but they had to go a long way in those days.

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