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This story was submitted to the People’s War Site by Doreen Oaks for Three Counties Action, on behalf of Trevor Halling, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

At the outbreak of war, my family home was in Sutton, Surrey, about 15 miles south of London.

Even at six years old, I remember sharing the apprehension that my parents felt about the uncertainty of our lives at that time.

During the winter of 1940, at the height of the blitz, we would hear enemy aircraft going over in the direction of London. Although Sutton itself little in the way of bombing, our house received a direct hit one night from what was probably a bomber discharging his load before leaving England.

In common with most people, we had a sunken Anderson air raid shelter in the garden, which, in theory, would have provided protection during raids. But in practise, it was flooded in the winter months making it unusable.

Fortunately, my father had the foresight to reinforce a downstairs sleeping room, by fixing ceiling struts to hopefully support the weight of the house should the unthinkable happen. Which it did.

My younger brother, parents and I were asleep at around 2 a.m. when I awoke staring into the sky, wondering where I was and why.

A bomb had smashed through the house, exploding in one of the sitting rooms only five or six yards away from where we were asleep, completely destroying the rest of the building.

The reinforced room had held but one of the outside walls had collapsed, which was how we were able to get out. More than once it was commented that it was a miracle anyone survived.

Ours was one of about four nearby houses hit that night. My family was lucky enough to emerge unscathed, except for Dad who had some arm cuts and bruises.

All of our furniture and clothes were lost, although neighbours were soon at hand to offer help for the rest of that night and several more weeks until we evacuated.

Next morning, we went to see our damage. The room in which we had slept had eventually collapsed under the weight of the rubble from the top floor.

One thing that I remember well was an ornamental heavy brass and glass miners’ lamp we had in the house. The explosion had completely obliterated it.

Father, being Welsh had relatives in Monmouthshire, so we were able to move in with them until it was deemed safe to return.

I enjoyed this experience very much; the train journey from Paddington, listening to a new accent and what’s more, the peaceful atmosphere of the valleys.

As my father had a weakened heart as a result of rheumatic fever, he wasn’t able to do anything strenuous but was able to find work in Wales, and also later when we returned to a rented house not far from where we had originally lived in Sutton.

But then the Doodle-bugs and V2 rockets started falling, so off to Wales again until the end of the war.

Eventful times indeed.

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