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My family had been talking about war and were not surprised when WW2 was declared. I was 8 years old. Mumā€™s face is still as clear in my mind as the time it happened.
Except for usual gas mask and air drills, nothing changed much except for rationing.

When soldiers were returning from Dunkirk, my father brought home two soldiers, one called George and the other Ernie (I canā€™t remember their sur-names).
George only had on boots that didnā€™t fit, trousers, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Ernie had battle dress and boots.
Dad asked mum to give them tea and whatever food we had.
There were endless pots of tea and eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread plus bread and butter.
I remember that George kept saying, ā€œThank you missusā€ every time she filled his cup up.
Ernie said he had known George since he was a little lad. They started school together. Ernie said the others told him to leave George behind. ā€œI couldnā€™t leave him missus, weā€™ve been together since we were little lads. I did the right thing, and I couldnā€™t leave him could I?ā€ He kept repeating this, and each time my mother said that he had done the right thing. (In retrospect I think he was shell-shocked).
When Dad got a car to take them to Chisledon Camp, mum was washing up. I took her a cup into the kitchen, silent tears were running down her cheeks. I asked her why they sent old men to fight wars. ā€œThey are not old men dear, thatā€™s what war does to young menā€

I remember later on we used to sleep under the stairs when the sirens went. But in August 1942 seven bombs dropped in the County Ground at the end of our garden. One blew lumps of concrete that went through our roof, but luckily all landed on the rafters as well as bits of shrapnel. All the mortar was blown out of the chimneystacks, but luckily the bricks fell back exactly in line, if they hadnā€™t, I wouldnā€™t be here now. Not a pane of glass was cracked let alone broken. We didnā€™t even wake up!

I remember dad coming in after the Roseberry Street bombs. He was grey and told mum all about the bits and pieces of bodies he had seen lying around. He was in the Special Constabulary.

By the time the Drove Road bomb dropped we had a brick shelter.
One day when we were about to leave the shelter after hearing the all clear, mum said ā€œListenā€, then we heard a German aircraft, and then the bomb dropped. It sounded like a steam express train with its hooter blowing going through Swindon station. My friend Maureen Taylorā€™s mum was killed, and Maureen found her. She had been sitting at her dressing table getting ready to go out, and when the bomb exploded, the glass of the mirror pierced her jugular vein in her neck, and she bled to death. My friend was never the same again.
Another neighbour, Mr Bint, who was retired and doing a little part-time job of road sweeping was also killed in the Drove Road bombing.

At school, if the sirens went, we dived under the desks. I remember the first Americans arriving in Swindon. My mum told us not to ask for sweets as it was rude, but some of them gave us chocolate bars, which we thanked them for.

I remember we always had good meals, as my mum was a very good cook and manager. We never had extras, but never went hungry. One time we hadnā€™t had a fresh egg for six weeks. When we did get some mum boiled them, one for each of us. Mum had a terrible cold, eyes and nose running. She felt very ill, couldnā€™t smell or taste anything. Her egg turned out to be green and stank, but she ate it.
Well it was soft boiled. Next morning her cold had completely gone, and all signs and symptoms gone! None of us offered to repeat this, we would rather put up with the colds!

I did see the devastation of V1ā€™s and V2ā€™s in Luton. As our hometown, all our relations were still there, so we had school holidays there with my aunts.

VE Day they had a big marquee in the County Ground and we had a lovely day, but mum reminded us that the war was still going on in the Middle and Far East, and men were still dying.

When the Atom bombs were dropped, we felt sorry for the women and children who died, but not for the rest of the Japanese, as the atrocities they committed can never be forgiven by my generation.
Now so much rubbish has been written by ā€˜Armchair Historiansā€™ ā€” we are the last to know how things were.

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