大象传媒

My earliest and very first memory as a small child is that of sitting under the stairs, holding my cousin's hand, with my parents - (Dad, James Best who worked the wartime ten-day week as an Aero Engine Tester at De Havilland's in Watford and was often home) and Mum (Nursing Sister, Phyllis Best, nee Matthews) with her sister Ruby Butcher (nee Matthews)- who were all sitting opposite us and her daughter, my cousin Wendy Butcher.

The sirens, the Wailing Winnie, had gone and we sat there as we all usually did,very quietly just LISTENING. It was the time of the flying bombs, spring or summer 1944. We heared one coming and all knew what they said "if it stops over your house, it has your name on it". We heared it come nearer and nearer, hoping it would pass over, but it stopped right over our house ... my cousin Wendy held my hand very very tightly and I found that I just couldn't move my body at all (the phrase "petrified with fear" comes to mind nowadays. I looked it up in a dictionary recently: 'petrified' means 'turned to stone'. That was exactly how I felt, could hardly breathe and not move a muscle) I felt as though I was stuck there, unable to move but staring at my father's serious face in front of me; his blue eyes appeared larger than ever in his thin face. We heared the bomb fall into the house behind the wall, against which my cousin and I were sitting. My Mother turned to Dad and said "Jim!!!" in a voice I had never heared her use before. We all just sat there, transfixed, and literally waited for death ... my Father didn't reply or turn to her and then I noticed that he seemed to be counting to himself, which puzzled me a lot: "what a strange thing for Daddy to be doing" I thought. - "...nine, ten - RIGHT" he said "EVERYBODY OUT!!!"
With that, he lunged forward and grabbed me up in his arms and then we were out of the front door and running, running down the street, on and on. My face bumping uncomfortably on his rough jacket. Over his shoulder I noticed that the street was absolutely deserted. A beautiful sunny day, but No cars, no buses no bicycles and absolute complete quiet (most unusual for London!) interestingly, no-one else running, except us. Nowadays I feel so sorry for the people who stayed in their houses, waiting in that kind of fear, because sometimes it took a while for a bomb to explode. Down the whole road and round the corner we ran, where my Father stopped and leaned against the wall of a house. "I've got to put you down now Darling" he said "Daddy's tired" he put me down, and I felt wobbly, on the pavement. The others soon arrived after us.
We weren't allowed to go back into the house, not even for "our things" because there were stories of other people doing so, even an hour or two later and then being caught in the delayed explosion.
The final memory of that day was being put to bed in a Vicarage where we were allowed to stay but for one night only.
My Father was helping me get undressed, with my Mother just standing by and watching, not helping. I couldn't understand that at all at the time, but now we are used to the term "traumatized"; she had also lost her voice although we weren't physically hurt. I will admit and confess one thing though, which only became apparent at bedtime: the experience of being petrified had caused me to fill my pants. I felt so ashamed...
Altogether, we were bombed out three times before the end of the war. It has left me with a few things: even to-day, I cannot hear an unexpected, loud bang without jumping out of my skin although I am O.K. if I'm warned beforehand; I still feel a split-second moment of anxiety to hear the wartime sirens again (Silly! - the war's over!); my hearing was a little damaged, but nothing to worry about and aren't digital hearing aids wonderful! Finally, I have got over my fear of the dark, but I still have the fear of the idea of being buried in rubble, with bricks in front of my face, although that never actually happened to me. As for the fear of death - amazingly, I am not afraid of that. A silver lining some might say, which is quite useful to me nowadays.
Finally - I don't have any hatred or resentment towards the German people themselves, whatsoever. I was once in Hamburg when they had an exhibition of the bombing there with photos. Feeling quite confident - even a bit cocky - I went along to see what they had been through. I had heared of the bombing of Hamburg, of course, but had no idea of the reality.
It was so dreadful, really so much worse than what we had experienced in London, that I found myself having to hold back the tears. Well, you can't cry in front of the Germans, can you!

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