大象传媒

During the first World War, my father had served in various branches of the Royal Artillery. Consequently, during the air raids on London in WW2, he would stand in the front porch of our house to watch the searchlights and anti-aircraft shells exploding. He would frequently get me, aged about thirteen, to stand with him.

One night, the exact date I cannot remember, a Molotov Breadbasket exploded above our house. A Molotov Breadbasket was a bomb which exploded at a pre-arranged height and scattered about 100 incendiary bombs over a large area. Some of these bombs were explosive. My father immediately grabbed a stirrup pump and a bucket of water, which was always kept handy and ran into the street, taking me with him. All around were burning incendiary bombs either in the road or in front gardens and in one particular case on a window sill, which bomb I swept on to the ground. As we went down the road dealing with bombs, an elderly man called out to us that his house was on fire. We went to the upstairs bedroom and saw an incendiary bomb sticking through the ceiling. I then stood on the bed with the bucket and stirrup pump which I began operating whilst my father directed the water onto the bomb. He extinguished the fire but not before the householder had complained about me damaging his bed. My father, being a Cockney, made the appropriate reply, which in effect was, let us deal with the bomb or leave it and let the house burn down. The bomb, in fact, re-ignited and had to be extinguished again.

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