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This story has been written onto the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People’s War site by Callington U3A —
Meg Bassett — on behalf of Mrs Pam Hunn who fully understand the terms and conditions of this site.

My name is Pamela Hunn (nee Knill) and I was born in King Street, Gunnislake, Cornwall. I was six years old when the War started. My father was a naval pensioner but was re-called, and worked as a storesman at Bere Alston, Devon. As it was so near he got home most nights. I had two brothers and two sisters, the first sister being sixteen years older than me, and there were about three years between all the rest. I was the baby sister. We had enough room for all the family because two cottages were knocked together, so four up and four down. Two rooms were let out to evacuees from Plymouth.

I started school the year War broke out at the Primary School in Gunnislake. At that age I was aware that the War was on. We had a big, black shed in the garden and from the roof we could see the bombs falling on Plymouth. The sky was all lit up and sometimes we could hear the noise of the Blitz. Nearby Kit Hill was probably used as a marker for the German ‘planes.

I was perhaps nine years old when the Americans came to our village. I was going up Chapel Street and I had to pass where they were billeted in the Sunday School. They were also in the Church Hall and the Town Hall. The men were black Americans, and the officers mostly white Americans — they were billeted in the Tavistock Hotel. The canteen for the men was in a long room between the Post Office and the Tavistock Hotel, with the cookhouse in the yard at the back of the Hotel. The men did not like it if we talked to any of the white Americans. The black Americans gave me sweets, oranges and chewing-cum — they called me Spammy! They were lovely — one was called Fred and another called Jackson. If they knew that any of us had family visiting, say men home on leave, they would give you Camel cigarettes for the visitors. The officers did not have much to do with the local people, but my sister met a white American where she was working in the NAAFI in Bodmin, and when the black Americans saw me walking down the street with him, they would not speak to me for several days. There was a certain amount of fraternisation between the local girls and the black Americans — no racial prejudice then!

When it came to food, we were not too badly off, or so it seemed to me. We kept fowls so we had plenty of eggs, although you had to give up your official egg ration to get corn. My aunt at St Dominick kept pigs so we used to walk there for some meat. We had enough clothing, with mother making the best of what we had, so I cannot say we went short.

We listened to the News, especially for news of my brother in the Eighth Army. I can remember him coming home after the War, by which time he was a Warrant Officer. He was, I found out after his funeral, one of the first into Hitler’s bunker, and during his army life he was awarded two Oak Leaves. But he never talked about his experiences.

When it came to the rest of the family, my sister came up from Plymouth for the weekend and at that time she was expecting. My father told her she was not going back, which was just as well because during that weekend, her house was flattened, so she stayed in Gunnislake after that!

To round off my memories, I was at my aunt’s home in Plymouth, with my father on VJ Day. Father said ‘That’s it all over — we can breathe again now’.

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