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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Dominic Penny of Link into Learning on behalf of Jean Goodchild and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site’s Terms and Conditions.

My father gathered all the family together on Sunday, 3rd September 1939, to hear the Prime Minister,, Neville Chamberlain, tell us we were at war with Germany. There were many changes to plan for at once.

My Father went back to the Royal Air Force so was absent from home; we found four Mundella School boys by our front door from Nottingham to share our school — we had ½ day school from then on (8.30 am — 1.00 pm, the boys from 1.00 pm — 5.30 pm); another elderly lady came to live in our house — she had a strange accent and I thought she was a spy because she wore dark glasses all the time; rationing, gas masks, a landmine in the High Street which did not in the end explode and a message inside said ‘Good wishes from Poland’; air raids so we had to sleep in the cellar; and our big lawn was dug up for potatoes. We still walked to school (1 ¼ miles) and back for lunch; we still had to wear school uniform with hats and gloves and were exhorted to remember how we behaved in the street showed what a good school the High School was.

Nine months passed in this strange and altered world. Then my Father returned briefly and our adventure began. He had information about England not being ready for war. He had a letter inviting him to send me (11 years), my sister (7 years old) and my 2 brothers, Tom (13) and David (15 years) to an Aunt and Uncle in Toronto, Canada to keep us safe there. Another Scottish Uncle had arranged passages on the ‘Duchess of Richmond’, 26,000 tons, from Liverpool. Within the month, mother had got us to Southport where we stayed in a hotel with circular doors overnight and then to Liverpool. I felt a terrible anguish at leaving my parents because I knew that there was a chance that we should not see them again. I was put in charge of my little sister who thought that it was all exciting fun, as did my brothers. My mother saw where our berths were and left.

The ship was ours to explore. There were many other children, regular mealtimes (if you were not seasick) and my brother fetched me to see a polar bear on an iceberg. The only adult I remember was a funny man who thought it a joke to hold a child upside down in a ventilator on deck. My brothers said ‘Don’t go anywhere near him!’ I remember standing next to David by the ship-rails and both of us quiet because it was so beautiful there in the evening. (David later joined the Canadian Air Force and transferred to the Royal Air Force in which he served till he was 42 and a Group Captain — he was a fighter pilot and had to fly Typhoons out to Singapore at zero height when the German war was over. I had the excitement of getting my driving licence at 17 on one of David’s ‘leaves’ and driving him about because he had not had the time to get a driving licence! He took me to a special café for fun where we had a hot drink of coffee and chocolate mixed with a little biscuit served on a leaf!) I did not have to worry about my little sister, she made friends and was happy all the time. I cried myself to sleep at night and in a way she looked after me then, as she has done ever since.

I believe we took 10 days to reach the St Lawrence River in Canada. We went far north to avoid German U-boats and arrived safely. We were not in a convoy. We did not know till much later that that beautiful ship was sunk with all the crew, who had looked after us, on the return trip to England.

At Quebec, we transferred to a train to Toronto. Aunt Maud and Uncle Wilf met us there. They were lovely people and looked after us as if it was quite ordinary and a good idea that we had come to live with them. They were loving and kind and we fitted in as well as we could not to let mum and dad down.

We started school — the boys went to Upper Canada College. Elspeth and I went to Havergal Ladies College and were picked up and brought back daily on the school bus. The school dinners were wonderful and were provided free by the college and no fees were charged either. The Canadians were so generous to evacuees from England. They found all kinds of ways of caring for us. I noticed this weekend at Church that we were singing a hymn written by Frances Havergal the same person who started that school. If the school bus got held up in traffic, we would hang out of the window and local boys would shout ‘Have-a-Gal’.

I remember feeling as if I was a traitor to England by leaving. We heard about the Battle of Britain, the North African battles, following Germany’s rampage across Europe, through Greece and the Mediterranean islands. The days passed.

Imagine the excitement when a message came to say my mother was coming. And come she did. She had travelled on a 5,000 ton tiny ship via Iceland and was safe. She came with the news that father was following, sent to start organising pilot training out west in the prairies of Alberta. Father scooped us all up and two weeks later off we went by rail, sleeping and eating and talking non-stop for 4 days till we reached ‘Medicine Hat’ — another new school, new friends, extreme temperatures, very hot indeed or very cold. I remember a local driver going by, stopping his car, looking at my mother and saying jump in quick or you will have frost-bite. He took us back to our house. That was Dr Campbell who in later life with his family visited England and the ties of friendship between us all went on through the years.

Medicine Hat was stunning — prairies for miles with the beauty of space and so much sky — as well as rattlesnakes. We were taken on a trip to the mountains, we rode and went to a rodeo, I learnt to type to music. On St Valentine’s Day my sister had 29 Valentines out of 30. The 30th was missing. The boy sitting behind her had dipped her plait in his inkwell. I was terrified of the French master and more terrified when my mother told him. Whereupon he told me he had no idea he could frighten anyone. He got nicer and it was soon forgotten.

This happy year went past. I would walk with my father to the RAF camp early morning before school and so on. He was the adjutant and a Scot.

It was over, over too soon. Father was posted back to the UK and we were not to be left behind. Back on the train with mother to Quebec and all of us onto the ship which was also packed with Canadian boys coming to help fight in the invasion. The first night out on deck, I stood with my father as we left the mouth of St Lawrence River, in the evening, enjoying the regular beat of the engine, counting the ships of the convoy, when suddenly huge explosions happened across the water to the left and as my father held my hand, he and I saw a ship like ours break in half and two parts sink into the sea. I said we must stop and pick up everyone. My father said that is not allowed. We must keep going or the German submarines will sink another ship. A terrible moment. I remember the steady hand holding mine for some time before Dad and I let go of each other and turned away. I have never travelled by sea since, even though the rest of the journey was fine. We were not quite all together as David had stayed to join the RCAF. I was walked round the ship every day by one young man after another. Good fun. We reached the Clyde and laughed to see a tiny steam train. It seemed so small after Canadian ones! We all saw the Queen Elizabeth slip out to sea — no convoy. No ship could catch her. She was too fast. So here we were. Back again. Back home. (Ready for whatever would happen next).

My father gradually began the task of preparing 121 Wing, 2nd Tactical Squadron ready to move back to France for when the invasion would begin. I was back at school and Miss Platt, art teacher, said to me ‘Do I hear an American twang as you speak, Jean? I hope not.’

Contributor: Jean Goodchild

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