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This story has been submitted to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People’s War website by a volunteer from Radio Lincolnshire’s CSV Action Desk on behalf of Christine Howe and has been added to the site with her permission. Mrs Howe fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

I was born in December 1938 and I was a war child, the youngest of six children. Life was only coloured with a few memories of sibling as the three eldest served in the war as well as dad who had served one war already. My childlike memories are of musty Anderson shelters and night lights in saucers of water, webbing bunks, sacking door cover.

I had an assignment in those times as our neighbour ‘Robbie’ (Mrs Robinson) was deaf so when an air raid was imminent I was her warning system for our shared shelter. The sound of bombs and doodlebugs droning overhead then silence made your heart top until the ‘bang’.
School time also meant going into shelters and sitting quietly until someone collected you. You never forget the wail of the sirens.

At five, evacuation came late as mum died of cancer in January 1944 so we were found someone to take us as evacuees, myself, my sister who is eight years older than me. My brother, who was her twin, was sent to boarding school.

Dad was called to ear in Royal Fleet Reserve so he was a stranger. The chain of changes was bewildering. Evacuation to Upper Sunden meant a small country school. Seeing cows close to fences was frightening as I believed they would chase me and they were so big. Yet I must have seen such beasties in Romford market at home; I remember the pigs there anyway. I was a quiet child then and it was all being dealt with by my sister who was only 13. I remember pre-evacuation searching for shrapnel. I found a jagged sharp fragment I gave to my brother Frank. I also remember seeing some shreds of silver and black ‘Ticker tape’. I remember salvage sacks on the back fence — big sacks. I remember holly hocks too growing by the fence nearby.

At home windows had tape across them and the house shuddered when bombs exploded. We were taught if a surprise air raid came to get under the table or sometimes under the stairs as the Anderson shelter hump was in our garden, entrance in next doors, so it was necessary for safety.

We came home from evacuation to share our home with our stepsister. Dad had married (marriage of convenience). He had someone to help bring us up and a victim of the East End bombing and our stepmother gained a home. Although I must have known her as she lived next door but two with her sister, everything was strange, just the same.

VE Day arrived and buntings festooned houses and crossed our street. Our corner lawn was the venue and I even remember the conker tree had lights in it. After the blackouts it was magical. Trestles were set and people did turns singing. To record the day residents (less their men) gathered across the road for a photograph.

It must have been a settling in time when VJ came and people even daubed VJ on their houses. Another party in the Co-op hall this time with a conjurer for kids. I remember a playmate, Ronnie, crying when the magician gave him water then pretended to pump it out using his arms like a stand pump. We were so naïve children. I must have got upset because suddenly I ran out saying I want my mum (not step mum). Gradually the welcome home buntings appeared as soldiers returned from war and I would meet my brothers again. One thing about big brothers in the services there was always a ‘great coat’ to throw on the bed cold nights.

Remembering evacuation again I do recall a village fete. I was invited to have a go in a lucky dip. Presents were unknown. To my dismay on unwrapping, it was a bar of soap. I didn’t realise what a luxury it was.

My one toy I took was a board with hooks and rings to throw. I found the rings broken and thrown into the next field presumably by Rita, the little girl of the family who took us in as evacuees. Years later, although it hurt because my toy was broken, I realise how hard it must have been for Rita to share her home with strangers

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