大象传媒

As an eight year old boy living in Liverpool at the outbreak of WW2, I well remember the misplaced excitement felt by myself and other lads of my age group.

People were standing in groups outside their terraced houses that Sunday, discussing the news that we were at war. Already, anti- aircraft balloons had appeared being flown from ships in the River Mersey and this was considered to be worth the tram ride down to the Pier Head, in order to view the spectacle close up.

As time went on, there seemed to be crowds of people wherever one went, either waiting for busses and trams, or queuing for this that or the other. Whatever the reason, they were on the streets lending an air of expectancy and a throb of excitement to the daily round.

During those early days, a lone German aircraft dropped a bomb (perhaps the first to hit the City) which damaged The Jolly Miller pub in West Derby, not too far from where I lived. The numbers of people making their way to view the damage had to be seen to be believed. There were Special Constables on guard outside the pub (which had not suffered all that much damage) and a great throng of people standing largely in silence just looking. It wouldn鈥檛 be long before the novelty of seeing a bomb damaged building would be replaced by weary resignation as the spectacle became more and more commonplace.

As for myself, I would rise early each morning in order to go out looking for shrapnel, the remains of the previous night鈥檚 anti- aircraft artillery, which had become a collectable item much sought after as a valuable school playground swapping commodity. But as the years went by, even that activity would lose its appeal due to the sheer volume of shrapnel lying around the streets.

By the time 1941 came round, one could almost set one鈥檚 clock by the frequency and timing of the air raids. Around five o鈥檆lock in the evening, off would go 鈥淢oaning Minnie鈥� as the air raid warning siren had been named, and within a very short time the bombs would be falling.

At the back of my home, there were a number of large four story houses, comprising 鈥淒erwent Square鈥�. Many of the houses had become empty soon after the outbreak of war, the owners having left for safer climes. One of the houses had been taken over by a company of Royal Artillery which had mobile anti-aircraft guns parked in the square ready for instant dispersal in the event of a raid. It was not unusual for one of these guns to be parked in front of our home blasting away at the enemy aircraft. Quite an experience.
In the 鈥渂ack entry鈥� the area existing between the rear of our home and the rear of the house where the Royal Artillery were billeted, off duty soldiers would congregate during late afternoon and early evening. There was always a guitar or mouth organ being played
and of course, some of the younger girls of the neighborhood would join the throng and engage in gentle flirting.

One evening, while this activity was taking place and before any siren had sounded, a group of aircraft flew overhead and somebody remarked that they looked like Germans.
A sergeant sitting with the group having looked up, said 鈥渋f they are German they will let go about now鈥� No sooner had he spoken when we heard the whine of the bombs coming down. There was quite a scatter as people dashed for cover.

My father having been conscripted was away serving in the RAF by the time the bombing had become a daily event. My mother (in common with many thousands of others) was left to take full charge of the home, my sister and myself.

We didn鈥檛 make use of the air-raid shelters provided, which in our area were the brick built surface structures erected in the streets. Rather, each evening after an early tea, we would walk the one and a half miles or so to the home of my grandparents. They lived in a solid four storey house in Brainerd street which had a deep basement. This had been made comfortable by the addition of a stove heater and plenty of chairs, and was the preferred shelter for many of the family members.

On one particular occasion while making our way down to this place of refuge, I had a sudden urgent need to use the toilet. My mother told me to run back home and then hurry back to catch up with her and my sister. The memory of the events which followed will be with me to my grave.
As I left my home, hurriedly trying to catch up with my mother and sister, the siren sounded and almost instantly the bombs were falling. Running like a frightened rabbit, I was spotted by an Air Raid Warden who hauled me into one of the brick shelters. 鈥淲hat the hell do you think you are doing鈥� he asked. I tried to explain that I needed to catch up with my mother, but he was having none of it, keeping a firm grip on my collar as I tried to squirm free. The explosions going on in the area were horrendous and as one particularly loud explosion rocked the shelter, the Warden relaxed his grip. I was off like a shot running for all I was worth towards Green Lane

The scene outside the shelter was incredible. In Green Lane near the bottom of Guernsey Road, an ambulance was nose first in a bomb crater (we later learned that there was an unexploded bomb underneath the ambulance) with Firemen working around it trying to release the occupants. As I continued to run while it seemed that all around were yelling at me to stop, I heard the sound of machine gun rounds hitting the concrete wall that separated Green Lane from Lister Drive Power Station. It seems they were aimed at the crews working to free the occupants of the ambulance. When I last visited that area of Liverpool, the marks made by the machine gun bullets were still visible in the concrete wall.
Further along Green Lane, The George hotel had been flattened and rescue workers were already toiling among the rubble. All around was noise and devastation as I continued my run. The air was filled with smoke and just to make matters worse the road surface at that point was thickly covered with black oil from an oil incendiary bomb.

I don鈥檛 know how many people tried to grab me as I ran past them, but none of them succeeded. I wonder if any of those rescue workers, Firemen and Special Constables alive today remember the spectacle of a skinny ten year old boy legging it for dear life through that scene from hell?

When I finally reached the home of my grandparents, it was only to find that my mother and sister were not there. It seems they had taken refuge in one of the other air raid shelters.

Of course my mother had been worried sick wondering what had become of me while all this was going on, the depth of her concern being demonstrated by the cuff around the ear she delivered to me.

During the May blitz of 1941,the home of my grandparents and that of everyone in the block was destroyed by a 鈥楲andmine鈥� which hit the playing field of the Seaman鈥檚 Orphanage directly opposite. As luck would have it, we had not taken refuge there that evening.

The war seemed to go on forever after that. And while most of it is now a distant
memory of deprivation and endless queuing for everything from ration books to the modifications to gas masks, all of which is becoming a little blurred, my memory of that dash through the blitz has remained sharp.

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