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I have many varied memories of the 1939-45 war. I can vividly recall being ordered to sit still and listen to the broadcast by Neville Chamberlain on the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Home Service on Sunday 3rd September 1939, because my mother said, ‘There is to be a serious announcement’ It was, of course, the declaration of war between Germany and Britain. We thought we were going to be bombed straight away and my mum made me try on my gas-mask as we sat at the bottom of the stairs, (thought to be a safe place during an air attack.) The first sirens sounded and this really frightened us, but he piercing continuous note of the ‘all clear’ informed us that it might just be a trial run!

We lived in Melton Mowbray, which was a small market town of some ten thousand people, most of whom earned their living from agriculture, which in turn resulted in the famous pork pies and Stilton cheese. The only heavy industry was the local iron works, the biggest employer in the district and soon turned over to war production. Thus it was something of a shock to be faced with finding accommodation for hundreds of evacuees from Sheffield and Birmingham and an estimated twenty-four thousand troops. The evacuee children and parents were taken into private homes, but the troops were billeted in hunting lodges and stables belonging to winter homes of the aristocracy and used to the fox-hunting season.

The first thing to be restricted was water, (the supply came from local springs). This was cut off in the evening sometimes as early as 8.00pm. Baths became a luxury with only seven inches of water. The troops had little or no water in the stables and had to wash in horse troughs, often breaking the ice in the terrible winter of 1940. Needless to say we youngsters enjoyed the snow that year and could not get to school for what seemed like weeks.

My mother was the W.V.S. (now W.R.V.S.) representative for our area of the town and it was her job to see to the see to the billeting of civilians. We had a W.V.S. card in our front window which created problems from time to time. When all else failed, it was our house that was crammed firstly with evacuees and then with the military. How we fed I do not know, but food was always shared and no one went without.

My brother Dick was called up into the Royal Navy and my mum thought he was going straight to sea when he was told to report to H.M.S Ganges. Imagine her relief when she found out that this was a training base at Shotley in Suffolk. At first he asked if he could send his washing home but on the first occasion the royal blue dye of the collar ran into the three white stripes round the edge. Back came the collars with a not to say that he could not possibly wear them in that state. Poor soul, she had to unpick the white tapes which formed the stripes, (hand sown in H.M. Prisons), they were boiled white and then replaced by hand. It took a whole weekend but a hard lesson was learned about washing deep-dyed naval collars. My mother also made Dick a ‘tiddly’ or best suit; he bought the material, drew a pattern, took his own measurements and mailed the parcel home. The suit was so successful that she received an order for a further suit from a chap who was getting married, but I think she declined, one model being enough!

Dick was posted as wireless/telegraphist to H.M. Minesweeper ‘Henriette’ which was eventually sunk in the North Sea. He returned to the sinking ship to retrieve some of the ship’s papers and his grandfather’s binoculars which he had taken to sea. A traumatic experience for any youngster and no counselling in those days! He was afterwards commissioned and sent to the Mediterranean where he remained for two years. Little was heard from him due to the infrequency of H.M Forces Post. My sister-in-law still has his naval uniform which is made from doe-skin and is stored in her wardrobe.

Perhaps some of the happiest memories of war-time days were when, after church on Sunday evenings, everyone went back to my mum’s home for a sing-song round the piano. My mum thought that if the young men of H.M. Forces went to services on Sunday night they must be all right and have come from a good home. Coming from a musical family all my young cousins had piano or singing lessons and thus we each took our turn on the ‘ivories’. Our repertoire included such hits as ‘We’ll meet again’ ‘White cliffs of Dover’ and ‘We’ll gather Lilacs’, with spontaneous harmonies being introduced as we went along. It is interesting to note that our family kept in touch with many of the wartime friends, even sharing holidays, birthday and Christmas. Several managed to visit my mother during her last illness before her death in 1980.

Whatever myths and legends are invented by today’s media, they cannot detract from the spirit which prevailed in those dark days, when people of all ranks and backgrounds came together and shared what they had, not only material things but joys and sorrow too.

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