大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Kat Pearson a volunteer from CSV Action Desk on behalf of Mr Barry Cox and has been added to the site with his permission. Mr Cox fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

BOOM- BOOM- BOOM. The guns on the hills a Mile away were firing steadily now in the silences between the firing, the frightening whine of the German bombers was clearly heard. Unsynchronised twin engines on the air craft whined, more so when loaded with a ton or so of high explosive bombs, luckily the ones flying overhead had already dropped their bombs on Birmingham or Coventry, and were now speeding back to the French airfields that were now in German hands, the guns on the hills having a last crack at them on their long journey. This pattern had been the night time ritual for twelve months or so; so regular and persistent we were to sleep in the bunks Dad has built in the arches of the cellar shelter for three years or so.

First the wailing of the warning siren echoed across the roof tops to let us know a bombing raid was imminent giving us time to leave our beds and get into the cellar, a cellar large enough to be shared by our next door neighbours who would come running around in slippers and house coats a flask of tea that had been made earlier. Ever jovial Uncle Ted and Auntie Edna would bustle their way in, his huge torch to show the way flashing all over the place, a few choice swear words being aimed at the German air force as he descended the stone steps, followed by Harold in his tin helmet and his wife Thelma, a lovely neighbourly couple who made up our full contingent of nine people ready to sit out the next three hours, with the noise of distant exploding bombs, shells from anti-aircraft guns bang-bang- banging and the whoosh and clatter of the shrapnel as it hit the streets. The noise coming from one floor up at street level was a little muted by the talking between the adults, and nervous laughter generated at some remark made in the group, who by now were sitting round a table playing some simple card game, or the favourite game at that time of 鈥淟UDO,鈥� and never was the game played with such intensity as in the cellar with all the action and noise going on outside. Some times concentration on the LUDO board lapsed as the vibration was felt from a close explosion through the house, 鈥淏----y Hell鈥� Uncle Ted would exclaim, 鈥淭hat was close.鈥� But within a minute or two the dice would be rolling again with all the magical mystic words to help the sixes come up on top, Uncle Ted inventing them as he went along.

Over the months of bombing, our sleeping habits were dictated by the nightly raids, Hienkles, Fokka Wolf, became part of our language; we even began to pick out the different sounds of the engines.
Search light batteries were situated in the same locality as the guns, the powerful light beams criss-crossed the Birmingham sky searching for the planes and the lethal loads they carried, the bang-bang-bang following in minutes once a plane was found in the beams. (It was reported that some time after the war, the shells from the anti-aircraft guns deployed could not achieve the altitude the planes were flying at and were used to give the population a moral boost, which I suppose it did, at least we were throwing something back at them, even if the projectiles weren鈥檛 high enough.)

The nightly visits of our neighbours at the first warning siren, flasks and hot water bottles gripped under arms, the stomach aching laughing through the night induced by some child鈥檚 game, or by some ribald remark from someone in the group seemed to be unreal to me.

Fire watching, called upon my Dad, Uncle Ted and Harold all clad in regulation tin hat, (鈥淒on鈥檛 put the strap under your chin- if you are trapped in some bombed house the rescuers will strangle you if they pull on your hat to get you out鈥�) to wander round the locality protected by- their steel helmets, the helmets seemed to give our warriors some kind of official look. The patrols some times interrupted our usual games, they would be away for an hour or two watching for incendiary bombs or anything else that may cause trouble, they would return with comments on any happening whilst out on patrol, 鈥淭hey are getting a hammering in Birmingham, it鈥檚 all of a red glow,鈥� Dad would say. Me silently praising God he situated us on the outskirts of the caldron.

Our warriors came in from such an excursion one night bent double with laughter, the story came later. Doing a patrol at the top of the street, remember pitch black having the blackout in force meant no illumination allowed anywhere, they froze at the whistle of a falling bomb, all diving for cover, the only cover available being 鈥淭he Golden Lion鈥� pub, rear wall situated on the corner of the street. Uncle Ted still doubled up with laughter to tell us, Old man Grosvenor who lived just below the pub had just visited his outdoor toilet, on hearing the whistle of the falling bombs dived for cover a second or two before out three heroes took flying dives, all landing on top of Old Man Grosvenor who eventually managed to rise to his feet totally winded by having a total of forty ton crash on top of him 鈥淲hat the bloody hell you lot doing鈥� gasped Mr Grosvenor, 鈥淚 thought the bomb had hit me.鈥� The story was related many times over the years and still brought the laughter of those many years ago, incidents as this happened nightly, but in the fog of passing years have been lost to the memories.

In addition to the nine of us sheltering in the cellar, there was an additional two persons in the house, my Grandfather and Grandma Walters who would not leave their bed even through the worst of the raids, 鈥淚f a bomb鈥檚 got your name on it, it woe mek any difference be鈥檌n down there with yo鈥� lot or up here in comfort.鈥� They had a room with us then and I can鈥檛 remember Hitler or anyone getting him out of his iron railed bedstead or disturbing his normal sleeping habits.

As I try to recall those years I can still see him in my minds eye sitting in his favourite armchair looking at the progress of the war, by the illustrations published daily in the newspapers showing the different positions of the battle lines shown on maps with arrows showing the latest troop movements, stroking his grey moustache, Grandad would relate our forces efforts to anyone near. 鈥淲e have broken our of the beach head,鈥� he would say or something similar happening along the invasion front. Sleeping in his own bed through the war seemed to be his little bit of defiance to let Hitler and his air force know we were harder than they thought, and so it turned out to be- luckily.

The raids went on for several months, gradually petering out as our troops got a foot hold in France on D-Day. Later, retreating German troops and air force having to surrender the air fields taken off the French early in the war were at last in our hands and the fighter cover could now be given to the massed Allied bombers that were destroying the large cities in Germany. But the destruction over England wasn鈥檛 quite at an end, 鈥淰I鈥� Rockets developed by the Germans were at an advanced state and being used in large numbers with considerable success, as the Army advanced so the number of rockets fired got less, firing sites were overrun, until even these stopped. So the nightly get together in our shelter was phased out, Uncle Ted and Aunt Edna, Harold and Thelma staying in their own beds, a short while later Mom and Dad slept upstairs, I know I slept in the cellar bunk for quite a while afterwards.

A piece of shrapnel was in my possession for a number of years after the war, then I lost it somewhere. I wish I had it now, a fragment of bomb or probably shell, about half a pound in weight, at speed enough to decapitate anyone in its way, Dad鈥檚 propped shelter in the cellar protected us through those raids and the flying missiles. It would be nice to have that souvenir now on a wooden plinth to remind me of those days, because I miss the simple laughter we had those times, the people and the games we played, when winning at 鈥淟UDO鈥� became more important at my age than the chaos up on the streets or shall I say more fun.

The Moms and Dads, Uncles, Aunts, the Harolds and Thelmas have gone now, along with the grown up memories they accumulated through those years, only our childhood memories survive. Of the personal family happening, so I am sure there would be so much more to relate if they were still here.

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