大象传媒

I was born in the old Surbiton Hospital in March 1937. As a result, I cannot remember many specific events of the early part of the War 鈥� just flashes of images of certain scenes. The order of events may also not be correct.

We lived in a small suburban road, (called Southville Rd.), in the Parish of Thames Ditton, but on the border of the Parish of Long Ditton, not far from Surbiton.

My earliest, rather vague memory of wartime came very early on. About a quarter of a mile away, there is a large recreation ground bounded by a few elm trees, and which has a pavilion on the far side. (On the other side of the pavilion was an unmade lane called Windmill Lane 鈥� although the windmill seems to have disappeared years ago. A line of elm trees bounded it, and, on it鈥檚 far side, was the large acreage of the water-settling basins of the Water Company鈥檚 treatment plant). I mention the pavilion as I have this recollection of being taken there. The place was packed with people, and rather harassed Council staff were issuing gas-masks. Being only two, I received a Mickey Mouse one. The smell of rubber was awful!

I remember once, during the Battle of Britain, my mother took me to an old cricket ground off Sugden Rd. We sat in the long grass on the edge of the mown area of the cricket playing field, and watched the dog-fights occurring in the skies overhead.

My sister, Susan, was born at the end of January in 1941, also at Surbiton Hospital, and her arrival was memorable as there was a major bombing raid going on outside!

One memorable event occurred, I think, early in 1941. A lonely old lady lived across the road from us, and had begged Mum to let me visit her for company one day. Mum agreed, and the day duly arrived. Mum took me across the road, and returned home. No sooner had she done so, than the air-raid siren sounded. A few moments later, a Messershmidt fighter came tearing down the street at roof-top level, firing it鈥檚 machine guns. The pilot didn鈥檛 hit anything, but Mum was in a terrible state.

My grandfather owned two very large houses in Long Ditton, with which he had combined the large gardens and turned most of the floors into flats which he rented out, keeping a ground-floor flat for himself and his wife, (my step-grandmother). One weekend we were visiting, and the air-raid siren sounded again. We all went down to the cellars, which were used for storing apples, etc., and made up beds there. We heard bombs landing all around, and then there was a tremendous explosion. A bomb had hit the drive close to the house. It couldn鈥檛 have been a very large one, as the house would not have remained and none of us would be here to tell the tale.

Food was always a problem, and I shall never forget the awful dehydrated eggs, milk, potatoes (POM), and soya-flour sausages - ugh! We were lucky in having an old-fashioned grocer, chemist and butcher in a little parade of shops at the end of the road. Sometimes, word would go round that fruit, (which was normally almost unobtainable), was available in a certain greengrocers. By Government orders, any fruit like that was supposed only to be sold to mothers with small children, but so often, the fruit was kept under the counter by the greengrocer for his special friends and customers. Mum used to get very upset at this, especially as she grew vegetables to help out.

We had a coke-burning back-boiler for heating and hot water. Mum used and gas cooker for cooking and a boiler for clothes, which she used in conjunction with a clothes scrubbing-board and a mangle. Her only view out of the kitchen was of the next door house and a 6-foot high wooden fence dividing the side paths. Incidentally, although disconnected, the bell-pushes and the indicator-board for the rooms, so that in earlier days the cook-general could be summoned!

We lived about 300 yards from the main Southern Railway to the west. Anti-aircraft guns ran up and down the rails at night, firing at enemy fighters and bombers. The Germans targeted that stretch of line, because, a short distance to the west, is the fly-over taking electric trains to Hampton Court, and they constantly tried to bring that bridge down as it would have severely disrupted all the lines to the south-west and west. Later in the war, a flying-bomb did hit the main-line embankment about 100 yards east of the bridge, but the engineers had the line open again in 24 hours.

There are several routes of single-deck buses running locally. Double-deckers cannot be operated here, as those routes along the old Portsmouth road towards Esher have to go under a very long low railway bridge, where the railway passes overhead at an acute angle. There is a similar low railway bridge at Thames Ditton railway station. We also had a trolleybus route which terminated at Winter鈥檚 Bridge, (not far from Thames Ditton village). At that time, the service was operated with the original trolleybuses ordered by the old London United Tramways Co. Ltd., (before the merger with London Transport), from Fulwell Depot near Teddington. Soon after the war, we received the last new trolleybus fleet for London 鈥� the Q8 buses. During the war, all the buses had windows with wire mesh in them, in a similar fashion to the criss-cross sticky brown paper people used in their house windows.

My father had tried to get into the R.A.F. at the outbreak of war, but was rejected as being too old to train as a pilot, as he was 36 by then. He joined the Home Guard, and spent nights on the hill above the cricket ground I mentioned earlier. During the day, he travelled in packed trains to his job as a clerk with Martins Bank Ltd. In Lombard street in the City. The train journeys were fraught, because some train received direct hits, but often the track was damaged, causing long delays.

In 1941, he was 鈥榗alled-up鈥�, and was sent to Larkhill on Salisbury Plain for gunnery training. On completion of his training, he was sent, with thousands of others, to North Africa. He wasn鈥檛 in the front line, and, being and older man, was taken under the wing of a Colonel as his batman.

Meanwhile, at home, we got used to the periodic bombing raids and the rationing. Many people had an Anderson shelter in a hole in their gardens. We, on the other hand, had a Morrison shelter in the front room. This consisted of a heavy rectangular base-plate; angle-iron supports at the corners, and an inch-thick steel plate on top. The space between the supports was filled with steel mesh. We had our beds made up in here, ready for use.

The flying-bombs, (early cruise missiles), (V1s 鈥榙oodle鈥檅ugs鈥� as the Americans called them), must have started arriving in late 1943. At first everyone wondered what happened to the pilots until the 鈥榩enny dropped鈥� and we realised that they were pilotless, and were being fired from northern France. They were funny-looking small aircraft with flames coming out of the back, from the ramjet), and they, for the time, fast and low. My mother thought that they sounded like badly-sychronised motor-bikes. Even now, if I see a war film portraying them, and the film-makers have got the sound right, it sends shivers down my back.

Mum kept rabbits in hutches at the end of the garden. One night, in a specially bad raid, she had to leave us in the Morrison shelter to rush to the kitchen. Looking out of the window she saw, to her horror, all the rabbits hopping around the lawn, not taking a blind bit of notice of all the bombings and the guns firing on the railway. Taking her life in her hands, she rushed out and managed to shoo them all back into the hutches.

Quite a few flying-bombs landed around us, but two I shall never forget. On the first occasion, I was returning after lunch to the little private school that I attended at the time 鈥� I must have been about 6 then. I had got to the point where I was midway between school and home, and not near a public shelter, when, once again, the air-raid siren sounded. I saw the bomb coming over the hill straight in my direction 鈥� and it cut out! As it started to nose-dive, I threw myself flat on the pavement. Next moment came the terrible explosion, but, fortunately, it was about a quarter of a mile away. The oily black smoke came rolling down the road. These bombs were much more powerful than the average aircraft bombs, being 1000 pounders.

On the second occasion, it was on a sunny day about 11.50am. By this time, it was almost impossible to cook anything, or even get a glass of water from the tap 鈥� I think that water-bowsers were sent round. The gas, electric, water and sewer mains were constantly being blown up. Nobody had any glass in their windows. The authorities had organised what they called 鈥楤ritish Restaurants鈥�, where they organised meals in local halls. etc., cooked on the spot, and sold cheaply to anyone who wanted them. Our local 鈥楤ritish Restaurant鈥� was a few hundred yards away in Long Ditton village hall, opposite the recreation ground I mentioned earlier 鈥� an unusual hall in that it was, (and still is), two stories high.

Anyway, on this particular day, we were all at home, and, once more, the air-raid siren went. We all dived into the Morrison shelter, and we heard the noise of yet another 鈥榙oodle-bug鈥� coming, and it cut out directly overhead! You could count to five, and on 鈥榝ive鈥�, if you heard the explosion, you had survived. On this occasion, we saw that the bomb was gliding towards Hampton Court Park, on the other side of the Thames, and gave a sigh of relief. However, that was premature. We saw it gliding back towards us! It landed and totally destroyed two semi-detached three-bedroomed houses next to Long Ditton village hall. There was simply a huge crater. The hall was left standing,but badly damaged, but everyone inside was killed from the blast. Ten minutes later, and the place would have been full.

The flying-bombs really put the wind up me, and, after the war, left me with two effects. Firstly, shortly after the last bombing, (above), we were able to move into the country, and then I started to get epileptic fits, which, just after the war, was treated in Great Ormond Street Children鈥檚 Hospital. Although it took quite a long time, I have not now had an attack since the鈥�60s. But, although I feel foolish, there is another effect 鈥� I am absolutely terrified of toy balloons going bang. Even seeing them makes me sweat and go jittery.

Mum took my sister and myself to stay with her sister in West Moors, a village southwest of Ringwood, (then in Hampshire). We weren鈥檛 allowed to go earlier, but now I can see why. Close to the village was an army base, at that time run by the American Army, of about three miles long and two wide, with an admin. Area. The base was surrounded on two sides by heavy conifer Forestry Commission plantations. This whole area was one huge diesel fuel dump, and, if the Germans had found it, half the New Forest would have gone up! Two 52-waggon trains and 7 convoys of 50 10-ton lorries left, brim-full of diesel left every day! On one occasion, a returning convoy of empty lorries ground to a halt in the village. At the front, some soldiers had stopped and were entertaining my sister and giving her sweets!

Our stay in West Moors was most peaceful. We were able to visit a local farm, and play by the Moors River. I enjoyed watching the trains at the local station.

We explored the moors and then, during August, we helped the farmer and the Land Girls collect the wheat which had been cut by a simple horse-drawn cutter, and collect it into bundles and 鈥榮took鈥� it. The village held a fete on what turned out to be a very wet, cold and windy day. In the evening, there was a concert in the village hall, and a star item was a group of black American soldiers singing Negro spirituals.

Several times we went to Bournemouth for a day on the beach 鈥� a town at that time full of American soldiers. (Bournemouth, incidentally, did get quite a bit of bombing, particularly of incendiaries). All the way along the beach in shallow water were heavy duty crossed steel beams about every couple of yards, to deter any tank landing. The sand was not very nice as it was impregnated with heavy oil from sunk Channel shipping. Quite often, a light aircraft towing a long balloon-like target with targets painted on the end, flew along the beach, followed by another light aircraft firing it鈥檚 guns and trying to hit the target. The sinter of 1944 was very bitter, like 1947.

During our time in West Moors, Mum was admitted to Wimborne Hospital with a goitre, which developed due to worry. In North Africa, my father had been hospitalised with jaundiced. They had both been writing to each other each day, but the letters got lost because Dad was being moved about a lot.

One last memory of wartime occurred in 1944. My father had been brought back from Italy, where he had followed the Army after the North African campaign. We were allowed to stay in the village of Aldbourne, in Wiltshire, near the camp where he was being trained with other soldiers, for parachuting and flying in large gliders. He was not looking forward to it! However, soon after completing his training, VE day took place, so he didn鈥檛 have to do it for real.

It was great having Dad home again. Before being posted to the training place at Aldbourne, he suddenly arrived home on leave, having only recently left Italy. My sister, who, of course, didn鈥檛 remember him, cried and ran and hid behind Mum. However, the month鈥檚 holiday we all had in Aldbourne was most enjoyable. One weekend, while we were there, a small travelling fair came and set up, which caused great excitement. Just before we set out for the fair, I went to the 鈥榣oo鈥� at the cottage where we were staying, which was a 鈥榩rivvy鈥� at the end of the garden. The owner had lined the little path between his rows of vegetables with flints from the local chalk. I fell over and cut my knee badly enough to need stitches at the local doctors鈥�. Mum was worried in case of infection, because the flints were all covered with algae. However, after leaving the doctors鈥�, we had a great evening at the fair.

We were back in West Moors for VE day. My sister and I were sent to bed early and the adults went our and had a street party and dancing in the main street. Shortly afterwards, a village fete was held on a very wet and windy day, followed by a concert in the village hall - the highlight of which was an item by some black American soldiers who sang negro spirituals.

When the war was finally over, there was great jubilation everywhere, but I remember asking 鈥淒oes that mean that we will not have any more bombers coming over?鈥� Everyone thought I had taken leave of my senses, but I coundn鈥檛 remember the time before the war, and bombers were a way of life. Children in wartorn parts of the world when a local conflict finally gets sorted out, must also feel like this.
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