´óÏó´«Ã½

Recent disasters in New York and Washington DC,
where people just carried on as normal, brought back
memories I had mostly blanked-out. In the Cardiff
blitz and elsewhere in the U.K. during the Second World War
absolutely everybody was involved one way or another.

For example, the disabled 88-year old who with a
stirrup pump and buckets of water put out the fire
caused by an explosive incendiary, which crashed
through her roof, the 13-year old girl next
door who scrambled over the iron railings (not yet taken
for the war effort) of a nearby park and gardens,
and extinguished incendiaries by frantically shovelling
earth with seaside wooden spade, knowing that if she did
not succeed the fires would guide the German bombers to
the surrounding residential area.

I know — I was that 13 year old and still bear the
scar on my thigh where I was grazed by shrapnel. It does
not show after all these years except as a white mark when
my legs get tanned. Ordinary people did not have telephones
in those days and could not summon the fire brigade for each
and every incendiary bomb that started a fire as the emergency
services had enough to deal with when large buildings were
on fire and people had to be rescued after bombing. Civilians
put out the incendiaries and many purchased their own bucket and
stirrup pump. Others used buckets of water or sand, whatever was
available. One had to be careful of anti-personnel bombs such as
explosive incendiaries or magnesium incendiaries that contained a
thick, gummy substance which blew out and stuck to the skin and
clothes. This substance burned anything it touched. Sometimes there were
difficulties because the water and gas mains were damaged by bombing.
Either the services would be cut off or sometimes the broken pipes
meant that the gas and water mixed together and when one turned
on the tap an unusable white liquid would run out.

Around the same period incendiaries destroyed my school.
When wading through the water in wellies to carry out salvage
work I remember we were told not to touch
walls in case they collapsed on us! Two of my friends
at school had already perished in a ship evacuating them
to Canada or USA which was torpedoed by the Germans. A
survivor said the lifeboats were machine-gunned from the
U-boat, but I did not know if that was true.
Writing Paper was in short supply so teacher ripped pages from
their books and gave us a few pages each. I did not realise that
until I saw they had written their names at the top of
a couple of pages. I had been thrilled at the prospect
of being evacuated overseas which offer was read out
to us to us at school, but when my parents refused to
give permission for me to go I felt furious with them,
although in those days we did not dare show such
feeling openly to one’s parents. Being a child it did
not strike me afterwards what would have happened to
me if they had agreed to my wishes.

In our home in Cardiff. we were lucky because we had a
cellar to go to when the bombing started. Our doors and windows
were blown out and we had to install a tarpaulin where our roof
used to be. A boy and his sister lived the other side of us. I remember
the same morning as my school was destroyed that they
told me our friends we used to play ‘cricket’ with in
Sophia Gardens with a tennis ball and makeshift bat — had all
been killed. That same night my youth club in Rawden Place
was flattened by bomb blast, as was my Sunday school.

Mum and dad never knew about the incendiaries
incident as I was afraid to tell them in case they got
annoyed that I had damaged my thick (granny) knickers and my only
pair of lisle stockings. I had to hide the pieces of rag I used as
bandage — no sticking plasters or proper bandages then.

My dad was considered a little eccentric and a fatalist. He had been invalided
out of the Royal Navy at the end of WW1. He had joined in 1914 at the age of just 16. When we were in a downtown cinema one night, the bombs started
dropping. A large number of city centre buildings — offices, shops, restaurants etc. -
were destroyed. People huddled together under the
balcony of the cinema for shelter, but when someone decided to lift his
small daughter onto his shoulders to sing merry
songs to bolster everyone up, Dad and I did not feel in the
mood. We preferred to leave to walk home, and pick our way over the
rubble, firemen’s hosepipes, etc. with shrapnel falling all around, merchandise
from bombed shops all over the street.
Dad always thought if your time was up
nothing could help. Walking with him I had no fear.

The New Yorkers, on September 11, reminded me of those days,
where everyone carried on as usual. It was the only thing
to do. We walked over a city bridge each night to
sleep either in the basement of some still-to-be-built flats, or within the
thick walls of Cardiff. We each took a blanket with us. There
were so many families bombed-out that we all learned to sleep,
fully clothed, sitting-up on the bunks provided. People
took their alarm clocks to wake them us as usual for work
or school. I remember how cold it was in the winter
because there was snow on the ground and no heating available. I could go on but have taken up enough space. Barbara

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.