大象传媒

This story was submitted to the the People's War site by Stoke-on-Trent Libraries on behalf of Ronald Allen and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

It was 1941, I was 9 years old. My life was idyllic; living in a large house with an extended family of, my parents, the kind of uncle and aunt every child should have and my maternal grandparents. My grandfather, his beautiful accent from the hills of Perthshire still true after 50 years in the Potteries, was being consumed by the inescapable indignities of Parkinsons Disease. To this day, I still recall with shame the innocent cruelty of holding his hand to stop it shaking.

It was dark, my father was about to depart for his nightly duty at the control centre. My uncle, because of his brief service in France in the first world war, had been appointed Fire Watcher for the street. He bore the stresses of his position with aplomb. They went outside to assess possible dangers. At the rear of the house were lush and productive allotments; they had installed there an Anderson shelter, a primitive but effective protection against air raids. We three stood conversing in whispers the enemy would not overhear. From the north west came the sickening rumble which wasn't thunder. In the sky the dull orange and red streaks which weren't lightening. I heard murmurings of "Liverpool" and "the docks". My father left imediately. My uncle, unwisely, re-assured those who were left that, he, in his professional opinion, considered action in our area unlikely that night. The thunderous crash of an exploding bomb showed the frailty of prediction. Mother, aunty, our elderly neighbour and her daughter were despatched to the shelter. My grandparents were called from their bedroom. Uncle and I waited at the bottom of the stairs. In total darkness there minutes of shuffling and weakening gasps, then my grandfather's agonising words, "Nay Sarah, it's no use. I'm done for." Silence; unremembered words. Uncle, ignoring his own repeated orders to neighbours, switched on the dim landing light to reveal grandfather, trapped and immobilised on the stairs, unable even to straighten up. He was secured by his own braces which were wrapped, like a straightjacket, around his neck and under his feet. He was freed, and with possibly misplaced humour, was escorted to the shelter.

I was out early the next morning, before school. I was very fortunate. One of the bombs had exploded in the garden of my best friend's house which was also in Grosvenor Avenue. This meant I was one of the favoured few allowed to search in the crater for shrapnel. I don't recall what damage had been done to the house.

It is said that we can only advance by learning from the past. I'm not wholly persuaded. The burning of the library at Alexandria, the 'fire-storm' bombing of Germany. The principal lessons learned in the 2,000 years separating these events seem to be the efficiency and technical expertise shown in the destruction of Dresden.

Finally, an Englishman roamed Italy, annoyingly being brilliant and dissolute at the same time. I paraphrase a few of his words,
The world is weary of the past.
Oh, might it die and rest at last.
Ronald Allen

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