大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by a volunteer from Radio Northampton Action Desk on behalf of Glan Grey-Jones and has been added to the site with his permission. Glan Grey-Jones fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

Although it is now past the first Sunday in Advent in 2005, there are incidents that I can still recall of my life as a boy, and then a youth, in World War II, 1939-45.

I lived in Vicarage Road, Morriston, and I attended Martin Street Elementary School, where a cousin of my mother, J Grey-Morgan, was the headmaster. I was to start at my new school in the September of 1939, again going from one boys school to another.

I well remember that particular Sunday, when Mr Neville Chamberlain made his ominous announcement at 11.00am, on September 3rd, from 10, Downing Street. Our milkman used to come round in a small cart, drawn by a little pony. In the cart, there would be four large churns of fresh, full-cream milk. As he delivered our milk - on a Sunday, you will note - for there was actually a true daily delivery in those days, he remarked, 鈥淗ave you heard the news? The prime minister has declared war on Germany!鈥�

I believe I started at my new school the following week, with my gas mask in its box, slung over my left shoulder, while my brand-new satchel, as yet empty, was slung over my right one.

I hated my first week at the grammar school, for on the very first morning, even before school had started, I was singled out - watched by the other students - to be the very first one to be initiated! I was to be pushed backwards, down a very steep slope, into an awesome-looking holly bush, minus my gas mask. When the initiation 鈥榗eremony鈥� had been duly completed, there was tremendous cheering! Then, after the first week, when all of us who were the 鈥榝irst years鈥� were hit on the head by 鈥榖its鈥� taken from a large conker tree in the school ground, things settled down.

In 1940, following the miraculous Dunkirk evacuation, we witnessed a 鈥榙og-fight鈥� between one of our 鈥榩lanes and one of the enemy鈥檚.

Each Sunday evening, before the nine o鈥檆lock news from the 大象传媒, there was broadcast the playing of the national anthem of each country which had been invaded - and pre-blitzkrieg - by the German bombers.

On this particular Sunday evening of September 1st, 1940, the sirens had long gone, but perhaps we, as a family, were somewhat complacent, and were sitting around our table, enjoying a light supper. Suddenly, bombs began dropping around us, and the dreaded sound of the bombers, droning overhead, was quite terrifying. Father put out the lights, and the four of us hastily made our way to the Anderson shelter, where we were to stay until almost daybreak. Throughout this ordeal, my little dog, Chum, a mongrel, lay shivering with fright on my lap.

The sky overhead was lit by the flares dropped from the German bombers; by the fires that came from the countless incendiary bombs - that in turn set fire to buildings around the dock area - but especially from the massive blaze from the oil refinery in Llandarcy, sited between Neath and Skewen.

We had but one searchlight nearby, which turned night into day, and one anti-aircraft gun, which we as children nicknamed, 鈥楤ig Bertha鈥�. Our defence against such an attack was not only highly inadequate, but actually pathetic!

We had a very heavy air attack on the night of January 19th, and then on the nights of February 19th, 20th and the 21st, 1941; the last of which destroyed my now, well-loved Queen Elizabeth grammar school, leaving only its walls.

We had no school for the next six weeks, and then we had to share schooling with Dynevor Secondary School, a quarter of a mile down the road (where incidentally, the present Arch-bishop of Canterbury was a student, albeit many years later). That too, was of grammar school status.

Our students attended for lessons during the morning session one week, Dynevor students, the afternoon session; we alternated in this manner, right up to the end of the academic year, in July. I enjoyed cycling as a boy - I enjoyed it even more during my grammar school days - and it was no great effort on my part to cycle from home to school, come rain or shine, after our school was destroyed.

Because of the shortage of petrol, many of the buses had large gas cylinders in trailers, hitched on to the rear, and therefore, their maximum speed would be (I estimate) approximately 25mph. And so, it was quite exciting for me to pedal furiously - albeit at a safe distance from such a contraption - behind such a bus, for the frontal wind resistance would be missing.

I cycled almost throughout the whole of the summer term, until one afternoon, when lessons were over, I discovered that someone had stolen all my cycling kit, pump, repair kit and even my cape, which was my sole protection from the rain. Needless to record, I gave up cycling to school after that!

The new academic year saw us accommodated in the school for the deaf and dumb, which had been vacated at the outbreak of hostilities, because I believe, it had been residential. It was situated on Mount Pleasant and overlooked Swansea Bay, a truly pleasing view, even in wartime; and it was in this building, I was to spend the remainder of my grammar school days.

Up until mid 1943, we had several air raids at night: there was one major raid in particular, in 1942, that I can recall. My sister, Nansi, worked alongside the sister of the late Sir Harry Secombe, besides the other numerous employees of Swansea鈥檚 large telephone exchange. This was situated in Wind Street, and but a half mile from the town鈥檚 busy dock area. She was on a 2pm - 10pm shift duty.

I believe the sirens gave out their wailing, warning blast about 9.30pm, and my sister, following her late shift, would catch the 10.15 bus back to Morriston, a journey which usually took about 15 minutes.

On this night however, she missed the bus, and because the bombs began to pepper the area, exploding devastatingly on impact with the ground, she immediately sought the safety of the telephone exchange鈥檚 underground shelter. It was providential that she had missed the bus home, for outside Swansea鈥檚 High Street railway (now termed, 鈥榯rain鈥�) station, the vehicle received a direct hit, killing all on board!

When the bombing raid finished several hours later, there were fires still raging, especially around the dock area, and my father, mother and I feared that she might have been another casualty of the war.

I was only fifteen years old at the time, but I decided that I would walk to Swansea, to find my sister, for we were a very close family.

However, a mile or so from the town centre, I was told that the rest of the way was far too dangerous - d茅bris-littered - with the added risk of high explosive bombs. Crestfallen, I reluctantly made my way home, but in the early hours of the morning, we were overjoyed to see her come through our front door. She simply sat down and cried. How I admired her courage!

The final air raid we endured - there were 69 major attacks in all, besides the 鈥榥uisance raids鈥� - was when enemy bombers flew low over our house, releasing salvoes of high explosives. Fortunately, it was the park opposite which took the impact. Beyond the park was sited an American army camp, which undoubtedly had been the objective. This raid occurred at about 6am.

Following the explosions, our mother got out of bed, to check whether my sister and I were 鈥榓ll right鈥� but unfortunately, being somewhat disorientated because of the dark, in the month of January, she fell awkwardly down the stairs. Sadly, she died in 1944, as a result of this fall.

I hold no bitterness in my heart, but I have such memories of wonderful parents and a very dear sister, and of Swansea Grammar School which I left in 1944.

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