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15 October 2014
WW2 - People's War

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Memories of the Merseyside Blitz

by CovWarkCSVActionDesk

Contributed by听
CovWarkCSVActionDesk
People in story:听
Ann Paton Wynne
Location of story:听
Merseyside
Background to story:听
Civilian
Article ID:听
A3966258
Contributed on:听
28 April 2005

When war was declared in 1939 I was 3 years old, the youngest of five child, and I remember little of the first year except that my two big brothers, then 19 and 21, went off somewhere dressed in khaki uniforms, with big kit bags and riffles (I had my photograph taken in our back garden holding a riffle, and my uncle took one also of our family, all together for what could well have been the last time). There was a sense of uncertainty and foreboding, but I was not sure why. When the first air raids began, my mother, sister and I went to stay for a short while with friends in the in the heart of the North Wales countryside, to be safe - how wrong we were!

The first night there found us huddled in the tiny cottage kitchen by an, oil lamp, while bombers droned overhead shedding there deadly load; apparently the lights of a T.B convalescent home set on a nearby hill side had been mistaken by the luftwaffa for a barracks! Back home in the town by the river Mersey, my father, who was an ARP warden, had noted that the strongest part of a semi-detached house was the inner chimney breast wall, and subsequently built a shelter in the corner, with study beams from floor to ceiling, and this was to become our nightly refuge as the enemy aircraft targeted the Birkenhead docks and the and the approach to the river Mersey. From our bedroom my sister and I would watch the searchlight beams criss-crossing the night sky, but as the raids got more intense, our beds were moved down to the front room. When the sirens began its eerie wail we would take our position in the dining room shelter, sitting down with eiderdowns drawn up to our chins and gum shields between our teeth, gas masks to hand. I remember thinking why everyone had such glum faces, somehow connected to the heavy 鈥渂um-bumming鈥 of the aeroplanes, gunfire bangs, and crashes going on outside and why I was shouted at to 鈥渟it down!鈥 and had to cover up with the eiderdown!

My Dad was out on duty during a raid, and in a road at the back of us a whole row of houses were flattened, with deaths, including children鈥any other houses in the area were hit, and dad and his colleges must have had many grim tasks to perform those nights. However at my age 鈥渋gnorance was bliss鈥 and I knew nothing of these horrors at the time, each morning we youngsters used to go out collect shrapnel in little tobacco tins, comparing and swapping, vaguely aware of the grown ups discussing in oar which building had 鈥済one鈥 overnight, and whether the water, gas etc, was still on.

However, one night changed all that. Dad, who was out on his ARP duties during a particularly bad raid, rushed into our hall yelling a warning before throwing himself flat on the floor-a landmine, was coming down overhead! There was a tennis court next-door but one and unfortunately for us, the bomb landed on-or should I say in-this, making a huge crater and throwing clay and mud half way down the road. All hell seemed let loose- the windows took the blast, soot swooshed down the chimney and we heard the crockery from next-door shattering from shelves and cupboards. We were unscathed, but next day my dad decided to get us out of there and found to his relief that the old 鈥済oweth8鈥 car would still go and took my mother, sisters and me out to a village he knew in the Cheshire country side, where we stayed till 1944. There it was a totally different life, and left me a wonderful, undying memories of farm and country living, which I am endeavouring to capture in paintings, but that is a whole new chapter of my war story.

We returned to a grey, bomb-scarred town, -weeds and wild flowers now growing through the rubble and twisted gas pipes where once stood homes and shops. My two brothers eventually returned from war unscathed one having fought at El Alemein in the 8th army and later in Italy. The other having been a P.O.W. for four years. Dad cut out large letters which were strung across the road 鈥淲elcome Home Boys鈥, echoing the many painted greetings in red white and blue adorning the ends of the bomb-site houses, to welcome all the lads coming home. Complete again we reckoned ourselves a very lucky family.

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This story has been placed in the following categories.

The Blitz Category
Childhood and Evacuation Category
Air Raid Precautions Category
Liverpool Category
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