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For a young boy like myself, growing up in Portsmouth between 1941 and 1945 - life was never dull!

I moved to Portsmouth, after the sudden death of my father in February 1941, where my heart broken mother wanted to be back with her family. So with my 13 year old brother and myself aged 5½, we all moved in with my grandparents into their two bedroomed house, which was situated about one mile from the Royal Naval Dockyard. Little did we realize the pounding that Portsmouth was about to undergo from the nightly raids from the German bombers dropping hundred of bombs, including landmines — 500lb bombs which floated down on parachutes and caused devastating damage plus thousands of incendiary bombs, which as their name implies were meant to set fire to any building they fell upon.

We soon discovered that the Dockyard was the target, so when the air raid sirens sounded with their never to be forgotten up and down whine - and it seemed like every night - we quickly made our way to the Anderson Shelter in the back garden, as the bombs began to fall, with the night sky lit up with search lights and our Ack Ack Defence Guns pounding away at the bombers that filled the night sky. We took whatever gave us some comfort, but it was cramped, with minimum room for everyone and no lights allowed, except the occasional use of a torch to show you the way.

Were we glad when the Siren sounded the All Clear — a slow whirring noise that gradually faded away and allowed us to crawl back into our beds, usually in the small hours of the morning, often cold and extremely tired. How our parents and grandparents coped I shall never know — but for a small boy the day after an air raid was exciting! We all rushed out to look at the nearest bombed buildings, but were kept at arms length and ushered away by the Air Raid Wardens, in no uncertain terms. That did not stop us from looking for any unexploded incendiary bombs, shrapnel of all sizes and cordite from our own Ack Ack Guns. This when stuffed into a milk bottled and ignited with a tapered piece of paper made a tremendous bang and shot flaming pieces of cordite all over the place. Our imaginations ran wild as we conjured up pictures of ourselves fighting off the enemy with these home made bombs — if they ever dared land in Portsmouth! No doubt reality would have been a lot different!

Over the weeks and months, so more bombed buildings appeared in the neighbourhood and they of course became our new playgrounds. Broken doors and windows to climb through, swaying rafters to crawl along, half demolished stairs to climb, swaying and crumbling brick walls to walk gingerly across and no one to stop us or chase us away! Occasionally a Policeman would chase us out of these buildings, but we easily outpaced him and knew where to hide out and keep out of sight. Incredible when I think about, the freedom we had to go where we pleased and the dangers we had to face up to — not dangers to us but ever changing adventure playgrounds. I would never wish the horrors of WW 2 upon any future generation, but it certainly gave us young boys growing up through that period a truly unique childhood.

Of course the inevitable happened, though you think it will never happen to you, when during one of the heavy night raids, a bomb fell on my grandparents house as we huddled in the Air Raid Shelter in the back garden. Fortunately the bomb fell across the front of the house landing in the middle of the road, where it made a huge crater and ignited the gas main buried some feet below the surface. The front of the house was badly damaged and the debris from the explosion in the road was thrown back into the house, nearly blocking our exit. The Fire Brigade and Police ordered us to leave the area as soon as possible, but did not say where to go — we were left to look after ourselves. Of course there was rubble and debris everywhere, broken glass and other people like ourselves, bombed out and not knowing where to go. All were very frightened, but I remember no one crying. If you looked up you saw the sky was full of searchlights, barrage balloons, lots of planes and everywhere a huge glow from the fires which were engulfing the city. Shrapnel was falling continually from the sky so we had to creep along the front of houses as close as we could get, making our way to the house of one of my Aunts, some streets away, hoping she could take us in. This she did, squeezing us in somewhere, all seven of us — my grandparents, my mother and brother and my two uncles — Uncle Harry and Uncle Joe still living at home and myself. No sooner had we arrived than incendiary bombs fell onto and through the roof and one fell in the garden near our shelter, which my Grandfather smothered with a sandbag. Fortunately none ignited, so we were saved from another blazing inferno.

The next day we realised that we could not stay in the badly damaged house of my Aunt, so it was suggested we go and stay with my Grandmother’s brother and his daughter, who we all knew as Uncle Pete and Eva, in their farm labourer’s cottage at East Meon, near Petersfield, some 20 miles from Portsmouth. How contact was made I do not know, as there were no telephones in those days in anyone’s homes, so I guess a telegram was sent. We duly arrived the next day, with little or no belongings and all seven of us attempted to settle in as best we could, filling the house to overflowing. The house had one tap, but no drainage and the toilet, the classic “thunder box” was at the end of the garden, in a wooden shed, with gaping holes all around and a corrugated tin roof. It was a dry toilet and required emptying once a week! On a Thursday night as I remember it. I guess in these days all this would be regarded as primitive, but to a bombed out family, it was a God send.

For me, moving to a Hampshire village from the large city of Portsmouth was a complete change and gave me even greater freedom. Paddling in rivers, catching eels, watching the blacksmith at work, running across open fields and after a thunder storm, collecting the small iron like thunder balls, which fell in the valleys between the hills. Had never seen them anywhere else, but I remember we got a lot of thunder storms in East Meon which rolled around the hills for hours on end, but thankfully very few German bombers.
I had only been at my new village school for one week when one morning we were told to evacuate the school at once, as an unexploded bomb had been found in the playground. Did we move quickly. I think the time taken to remove the bomb gave us school children another week’s holiday!
One of my Uncles - Uncle Harry - decided to marry his sweetheart — Auntie Lil, so every effort was made to make this a splendid occasion for the whole village to enjoy. Amazingly as I remember, we had lots to eat, with music to listen to, dancing and singing, plus a magnificent chocolate cake for the wedding cake. The church in which my Uncle and Aunt were married, I have since learned, is one of the finest parish churches in the land. Started in the reign of William the Conqueror and modelled on the layout and style of Salisbury Cathedral.

After nine months of this very congested living, the family decided to move back to Portsmouth, to a house, which of course my grandparents rented and we stayed there with them until the end of the war. Bombing still went on but not at such a great intensity but one day I had the school boys dream come true — went to school one morning and there to our amazement we saw it had been flattened to the ground by the German bombers the night before! Another weeks unexpected holiday. After that I moved schools quite often and in fact I lost count of the number of Primary Schools I was transferred to — probably 7 or 8 in the end.

As the war moved through 1944 and towards the launch of D Day, so we were attacked more and more by low flying German Flying V One Rockets — which made a plop plop noise before suddenly going quiet as its engine cut out, falling to the ground and causing a huge explosion on impact resulting in many deaths. These flying bombs came across at all times of the day and it was difficult to take to the shelters, as it was not possible to give sufficient warning of their approach. Hence the many deaths.

When VE Day arrived, each street around us organised themselves into a huge street party, with games, prizes, music, dancing and singing and as much to eat as the rations would allow. We were overjoyed to have the war come to an end, thankful and grateful for surviving the bombing raids which had devastated our City.

For me as a child in 1939 and growing into a young boy by 1945, the war created a great coming together of the people in a way I have never felt since. We were one people, never doubting for a minute we would win through to victory against an evil and terrifying enemy.

Dennis Maggs 11 April 2005

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