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I was 12 years old when war broke out, I remember a lovely sunny Sunday in September, listening to Mr Chamberlain on the radio. A lot of talk between neighbours and people passing in the street. I think children mostly take notice of what is said between their family members. My gran minded all the grandchildren, so the house always seemed full of relations. Although I feared the Germans were going to march down our street and shoot us all, I trusted my family to take care of us. The first few years were quiet, we were given our gas masks, got used to pitch black nights and managing on our rations. Not much traffic on the roads except for army vehicles and groups of soldiers marching along.

The news on the radio became more and more serious by the day. Everyone was worried about our boys at the front. I was only a kid but I listened and I could imagine our soldiers having to fight in mud and rain, in fear. Our air force fighting off German planes.

Living in the Midlands, our town had only 2 light bombings, both on the outskirts. One on woodlands and wet ground, the second caught the corner of a school at night. We lost a number of local lads. Jim Andrews. John Barret. Billy Baker. George Whale. Colin Pool. I remember them well. The grown ups went to the pub most nights, and why not, we all thought our days were numbered.

Last night we watched the Service of Remembrance on TV. A very perfectly arranged programme. Very nostalgic.

Today listening to Carrington on radio, such a lovely programme brought back to me all the sadness of those years. Even more emotional because our beloved country is at war again.

P.S. I left school at 14 years — 1941. Sent to work on finishing off weaving looms, when empty. Cleaned and wrapped in Hessian until end of war. Sent to work on Bailey hooks and drawing bench-rods through dyes to make thinner. Then lastly — rod welding. Necks on jerricans.

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