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German night raids over our cities were known as the ‘Blitz’ from the German Blitzkrieg (lightning war) used in their attacks on Poland, Norway, and the Low Countries. It really meant a rapid and heavy attack from the air and on the ground, designed to overcome all resistance quickly. It was not an apt word for the raids on us, which were meant to soften us up and make us an easier target for a later invasion. The NAZIs misjudged us; each raid made us angrier, tougher, and more determined to fight back.

Incendiary bombs were used in the first of these raids. Each was about 35cm long by 5cm in diameter, and heavy enough to go through the roof of a house to burn it down. They were packed in a large case about the size of a ten-year-old child. When this descended to about 200 metres from the ground it flew open to scatter its load of bombs. The cases were called Molotov Breadbaskets. One morning I found half of one in our garden. It came in useful the following summer. My friend next door and I had gauge 0 railway track, and this nicely shaped piece of aluminium made a realistic tunnel in the garden. We covered it with turf and ran the track through it.

One raid that sticks in my mind was not on London at all. In the middle of November 1940 the sirens sounded soon after darkness fell. My father was at work on his London newspaper in the editorial department and was not usually home until bedtime. That evening when the warning sounded my mother took me and several cushions into the cupboard under the stairs. It would have kept us away from flying glass but exposed us to the risk of being burnt alive. We were surrounded by woodwork and slumped next to the gasmeter — hardly the best place to shelter!

German planes sounded different from ours. The note of piston engines rose and fell as the vibrations of each engine argued with the other. Ours did this slowly like a cat’s miaow. German engines pulsed more rapidly in a series of angry grunts that sounded more ominous. That night we heard hundreds of German bombers flying over us in waves, taking a long time to pass. Then an hour or more later they disturbed us again as they returned to their bases in Belgium and France. We were puzzled; no bombs, only ack-ack fire. In the following days we learned that the target had been Coventry where the loss of life was terrible and the damage to homes too much for the City to cope with on its own. Many people moved away.

That Christmas we went away to the home of one of my father’s colleagues. He had three children all younger than me and they lived in Claygate, Surrey. It was a jolly time for me for I seldom saw young children apart from one cousin. We were still there on 29 December but my father and his colleague had to work. They left as usual after lunch. That evening a warning sounded. We crowded into a downstairs passage free from windows, and made ourselves comfortable with bedclothes and pillows. The young ones soon fell asleep but I was just 12 years old and too grown up to settle down. The All Clear sounded in the early morning but there was no sign of the men. We assumed they had waited until danger no longer threatened, so went to bed. In the morning there was still no sign of them. Telephone lines were down and we could get no news. We were worried sick for them. The next day should have been my father’s day off but there was still no sign of him. For hours I moped about the house. He arrived after dark looking pale, dirty and unshaven. His colleague was all right but had stayed at work rather than struggle home only to have to return to his office.

I forgot how grown up I was and cried with joy at seeing my father again. After a bath and a meal he told us about the raid on the City. It became know as the second fire of London. The pictures of the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral silhouetted against a sky red with flames and smoke became a famous symbol.

There were more night raids during January 1941. We had no shelter ourselves, nor was there a street shelter nearby, but a neighbour three doors away had asked us to share theirs during the daylight raids. This offer was repeated when the Blitz got going. Every night I had to hurry home from school, eat my tea, and try to finish my homework before the siren went. Bombers usually arrived about seven pm. My school was seven miles away from my house so I was rarely home before five pm. The evenings were a rush followed by hours of forced idleness sitting in a cold damp shelter lit only by a couple of tiny paraffin lamps. Often I had to learn poetry but could hardly see to read it.

The shelter was called an Anderson, built in a hole in the ground, then covered with earth removed from the hole. A blast wall had to be built about one metre in front of the tiny entrance. Inside, a wooden floor had to be laid above the earth because the water would rise. Most people dug a deeper hole called a sump. It would fill with water and had to be bailed out to keep the water level down. Imagine how cold such a shelter would be on cold January nights. The breath of people inside condensed on the steel walls and roof. We had to be careful not to touch the sides with clothing to avoid it becoming soaking wet. That winter two shelters very close to ours were hit by bombs in separate raids, killing all the occupants. But Andersons saved many more from blast and flying debris.

The Germans came on clear nights, or when there were breaks in the cloud. One of my enduring memories is standing at the door of the shelter watching the beams of many searchlights crisscrossing the sky. If one caught a plane others would join it and try to hold on until the plane was shot down by guns or a fighter.

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