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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by a volunteer from ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Suffolk on behalf of John Haliday and has been added to the site with his permission. Mr. Haliday fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

I well remember an incident that happened one night in 1940 or maybe 1941. I was born on 14th June 1933: my sister Audrey was three years younger than me. My father was in the RAF.

It must have been a weekend because my grandfather (who lived in Clapham) visited us and he worked as a carpenter in the week. Most evenings when it got dark the sirens sounded and the three of us and our little black mongrel dog, Peter, went down our small garden into the Anderson shelter.

On this particular evening either we were late because Grandad had been or ‘Jerry’ was earlier than usual. Bombs were dropping before we could leave the house. All three of us lay flat on the floor under the dining room table. Explosions seemed to get louder and louder (we learned afterwards that it was probably a ‘stick’ of bombs all dropped at the same time). The penultimate bomb shook the house to is foundations, all the windows smashed and my mother kept repeating ‘it’s alright, it’s alright’ over and over.

There seemed to be a slight lull in the bombing and A.A. guns, but the all-clear siren had not sounded. My mother stood and looked out of the French windows (that were!). She said nothing and remained quiet. ‘Can we go to the shelter now?’ I asked. ‘Not now’ she replied. And then we heard awful sounds. Lots of our neighbours were screaming and shouting. I asked if it was time for us to put on the gas masks.

The all-clear sounded and we dozed until morning. When we looked out on the back garden our shelter was gone. In its place was a large pond, and floating in the middle of the muddy water was mother’s handbag with our ration books in it.

My sister burst into tears saying ‘I loved that shelter’.

We later learned that the bomb before ‘ours’ had smashed up the water main in the next road and had flooded the nearby shelters where our neighbours were hiding.

One strange thing about all this that is etched in my mind is that our bass broom in the garden was still leaning against the side of the house.

On reflection, had Grandad not called we would have all been blown to pieces. Definitely ‘better late than never…’.

We were evacuated to Cornwall.

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