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(Formerly of 20, Constance Road West Croydon)

Croydon, just south of London, was not the most salubrious of areas to live in during the war years but as I was only two at the start of the war and as I didn’t know what salubrious meant anyway, I didn’t bother to move away from my parents — that came later, in the form of evacuation.

My first memories of the war were of standing up in my cot in the middle of the night and shouting ‘siween Daddy’ whenever the siren sounded an air raid. I felt no fear, just a desire to be of help to my mother and father. Anything to oblige, Dad. Along with my sister I would be bundled up in warm blankets and taken downstairs to the ‘safety’ of the cupboard under the stairs. As the war increased in it’s intensity and bombs started to fall thick and fast, we became the proud possessors of an Anderson shelter, which was supplied by the Government for a nominal charge. The shelter consisted of sheets of corrugated iron and nuts and bolts which were to be erected in the back garden and the resultant shelter afforded some sort of protection should you be unlucky enough to have a bomb land in close proximity. That was the theory, which later the Germans put to the test.
In the meantime my father set-to erecting the shelter and made an excellent job of it — the finished product was just like a half submerged house, containing four bunk beds, courtesy of Dad, with steps leading down to the entrance, in front of which was a blast wall, for additional protection.

Dad was a carpenter and joiner by trade and therefore, whilst having been accepted for the Royal Navy, was retained for war work in the U.K. On one occasion he was sent to Blandford in Dorset to assist in the building of an airfield and I clearly remember the day he left home. I was in my mother’s arms at the front gate waving good-bye to him. He turned the corner, disappearing from sight and we went indoors. I went and sat quietly in Mum’s armchair and then burst into tears. I can’t believe this but I am moved to tears just recalling the event! Memories are made of this?

When I was six, my older sister Shirley and I were evacuated to Loughborough in Leicestershire. We congregated at what was then the Croydon Polytechnic in Scarbrook Road, (at the top of Surrey Street market) and made our way by double decker bus to London where we embarked on our journey to Loughborough by train. I do not remember any sense of fear or unhappiness, maybe I was too young to realise that I was leaving the comfort of my home and parental protection for which was to be an unspecified period of time. We finally arrived at our destination, a school, where our would-be fosterers selected the children who were to stay in their houses for the foreseeable future. I did not of course, realise what a lottery this was and at six years of age, who would? All in all my sister and I fared well and we were taken to live with a lady who’s husband was abroad fighting for his country. This didn’t stop her from having a boy friend who was in the R.A.F. There’s nothing to beat a bit of patriotism and helping with the war effort, is there? Of course these thoughts never entered the head of a six year old.

Shirley and I were sent to the same school and I remember there being two classes held in the one classroom with half the desks facing one way and half the other. We made friends with local children and in general had a happy time ‘up there’. I do remember, however, one dark event that took place in our new home. My seventh birthday took place on the 22nd September 1944, whilst I was evacuated. The presents and cards that arrived for me had all been opened, courtesy of our fosterer. Lovely lady! May God forgive you Madam, for to this day, I surely haven’t!

During our time in Loughborough the word got around to us children (little devils, everyone) that the Yanks could be persuaded to part with money if you adopted the following scam (a word not in my vocabulary at that time). During the afternoon on a fine day, you went to the park to find yourself a courting couple, the male of which should be a member of the armed forces wearing an American uniform. You then sat down in close proximity to the happy couple and awaited the offer of money to go away. Shirley and I, together with a friend, adopted this ploy and were rewarded with half-a-crown! We left the park elated and asked the first person we saw if she was able to divide the money equally between the three of us. She was able to; ten pennies each and it was only many years later that it occurred to me that the first person asked was able to come up with sufficient change to effect our request. Amazing!

Mum arrived one weekend to visit with us and I remember her taking us to the cinema to see a film, which was very scary indeed. It was called ‘The Lodger’ and I remember being very glad that I was sharing Mum’s bed that night! During her weekend stay Mum noticed that Shirley and I were constantly scratching away at our heads and upon inspection she found that our hair was flea infested. She said nothing to our fosterer at that stage but returned to Croydon on the Sunday. The next weekend, having consulted with Dad, she returned to collect us. This time she had plenty to say to the fosterer and without doubt sent her away with a flea in her ear! The journey back to London was spent with my sister and I sitting next to the open window whilst our dear mother dispensed with the fleas one by one! Yuck!

Had Mum and Dad been able to foresee the events that were to unfold upon our return, their decision to bring us home would surely have been different. Croydon suffered very heavy bombing during the war years and with the advent of the V1 and V2 rockets the situation was about to get even worse. These unmanned missiles were launched from France and approached the English coastline from a southeasterly direction. They had a distinctive sound emanating from their engines and on hearing the sinister buzz (hence the nick-name ‘buzz bombs’) one had only to look up and over the tall elm trees in Elmwood School grounds to confirm ones suspicions that, once again we were under attack! The flying bomb had an unpredictability to it’s flight duration that was positively eerie, inasmuch as having reached the target area, say Croydon (i.e. us), it’s engine would cut out and the missile would either nose-dive into the ground or glide silently onward for miles before delivering it’s deadly cargo. Picture the scene. It was mid-morning and Dad was home. The siren started it’s melancholy wailing to signify an imminent attack and we children were summoned to the shelter once more. Off we go again! Exciting, I think in my childish innocence. Shortly the sound of the ‘doodle bug’ flying inbound reached our ears and then the dreaded cut out of the engine followed. A deathly silence was maintained for several seconds and then there was this almighty explosion, the immensity of which you cannot imagine! This horrendous noise was followed by what I can only describe as the sound of tinkling rain, and then another deathly silence followed. I looked at Mum aghast. My sister started crying, then my mother started crying and then I started crying. Tears were falling heavily thus replacing the bombs which had already been delivered! It was of course the shocked reaction to the terror of what had just taken place. You had to be there to understand, but I’m glad you weren’t. Anyway, Dad remained resolute, as always and decided to see what awaited us up top. He went up and opened the door to be greeted by the sight of a row of terraced houses with not a pane of glass in their window frames! The ‘tinkling rain’ was explained. Dad went out (followed by his now recovered and brave son) and checked with neighbours to ensure that they were alright. Fortunately, all was well. Quickly, we set-to sweeping glass shards into tin baths and various other suitable receptacles. It transpired that the rocket had fallen on a dance hall in Elmwood Road which was at the rear of Constance Road (our road) and which ran parallel to our road. I would estimate one hundred yards distance from our back garden and the shelter! Mum and Shirley meanwhile had gone indoors and the news was relayed to Dad and me that ceiling plaster had landed in the saucepan of potatoes that was sitting on the gas stove waiting to be boiled for lunch! I can see that saucepan in my mind’s eye sixty years on from the event. Hard to believe, but true!

When I think of what the adults had to contend with in the war years I can only admire their immense bravery and tenacity. As a young lad it was all very much an adventure and I cannot remember experiencing any of the fear my dear mother and father must have felt for themselves and even more so for their beloved children. But life went on - until it didn’t. True grit, indeed!

Eventually, the war ended and there followed street parties everywhere. Dad made cricket bats for competition prizes and the residents of Constance Road enjoyed their own party. Everybody pitched in to provide tables and chairs for our outdoor festivities along with lots of sandwiches, trifles and jellies.

In the process of describing my wartime memories I have been surprised at how quickly they have flooded back and how clear those memories remain all these years on. It also surprised me at how emotive recalling my wartime experiences has been. That period of my life clearly left it’s mark!

It’s a great pity that the sacrifice made by millions of people during that dark period of the world’s history doesn’t seem to have taught us any lessons, as planet Earth is still as dangerous a place as it has ever been.

Man’s inhumanity to man. When will we ever learn?

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