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One day our father got all the family together and explained that war seemed to be on the way and so the powers that be had decided to issue every family with a shelter for protection. Father said we would be safe from bombs but that we had to build it ourselves. There were rules to be obeyed, a pit to be dug, it had to be erected a certain distance from the house, so as to be safe.

Sometime later huge corrugated curved iron sheets were delivered and we all had to start digging a huge hole in the garden. Friends, family and neighbours helped. The sheets were then placed in the holes and the tops were fastened with bolts. The back and front panels were put in place, gaps around the sides were filled with earth, the top was covered with sandbags full of a mixture of sand and soil and then covered again with more earth, so as to give a good depth of protection.

A blast wall of sandbags was placed two feet in front of the front door so that you entered from the side, and a curtain of sacking was hung so that all light was contained. Then the whole was concreted in place. But what had begun as quite a lark in the soon became first of all tiring and then as the raids lasted longer, the hours spent down our hole lengthened.

Mother said that if we were to stay down longer then seats were needed so planks were placed along each side.

We went down for the first time in reality on the day war was declared. The air raid warning sounded, it was a Sunday morning and we all went into the shelter. Luckily it was a false alarm.

As the raids became more frequent and prolonged our few hours underground became all night. We would be smothered in quilts and we had paraffin stoves and lamps, very smelly. As twilight fell people wended their way to the shelters. You could see folk going down their gardens laden with everything they might need for the night, food, drinks and, of course, small treasures.

Mother said we had to have some beds, or something, so shelves were bult and we would slide into our places at bedtime. Stories were read, games of thought were played, prayers were said and, so, goodnight.

We discovered that our shelter leaked water through the walls, so one day we had to clear it and then the concrete was covered with a cement called Pudlo which was supposed to make it water tight - it didn't. At night my younger brother, who was on the bottom shelf, would tell mother how high the water had reached, but it was reckoned it was better to be wet than killed.

When raids had moved beyond us we were sometimes allowed outside to look around. On the nights of the Great Fire of London, my father was on firewatch duty there and from our home, on a hill and thirteen miles away, we could see the glow.

The shelter kept us safe. Inside you were aware of the thud of the bomb and the noise of the gunfire but we were fortunate. Everyone was so helpful and friendly and shared whatever they had. People left their garden gates open so that if anyone was caught in a raid, they could dash down into a shelter. Local Air Raid Wardens covered 24 hour shifts and would come round to tell us the latest news and to ensure we were safe.

We had some great laughs and a few tears. One morning, after a landmine had dropped nearby, a shelter was still standing, stripped of nearly all its earth covering and there, perched on the top was a very ruffled cockeral heralding the new day and crowing his head off.

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