大象传媒

WW2 鈥� life in Kent.

I was four when the war began. The first recollection was seeing a dogfight high above on a beautiful summer day. I was of course too young to appreciate how grave the situation was, but do remember feeling the dismay and apprehension displayed by my parents. My brother, nearly three years younger was only a baby. The next memory was gas masks; I was able to have a junior one, but my brother had to be put in an enclosure made for a baby. His screams when this awful device was tested on him were truly terrible.
We lived near Maidstone, and moved to a cottage on the A20, three miles west of the town. I was to remain there, apart from one short stay in the north until I was seventeen. It was 1941, and I was six. By this time my father had left; I was not told much, but was to learn later that it was the usual family break up, not talked about much in those days. I was also told he was on war work, and I was to say nothing to anyone.
My mother was a practical person and the first thing she insisted on was taming the rather large garden we had inherited. It had been chestnut coppice, and there were many tree stumps to be removed. I began to acquire the knack of digging round these, and cutting though the numerous roots. It was hard work, and one stump might take many days to remove. 鈥楧ig for Victory鈥� was the slogan, and dig we did.
Until then we had experienced spasmodic air raids, but then German bombers began to target Chatham Docks. Our landing window faced in that direction, and we were roused many times by the night raids, and watched as the docks blazed, and our anti-aircraft guns tried desperately to stop the onslaught. I recall seeing German aircraft caught in crossed searchlight beams, and even at that age imagining how the pilot must be feeling in such a desperate situation.
Although the A20 was a main road, traffic was light in those days, as only essential users were allowed petrol. The traffic was light that is, until we had a military convoy. In that situation we might have to wait over twenty minutes to cross the road. Later on the Americans came, and delighted us by throwing oranges, biscuits and other goodies to us as they went through. My brother and I were surprised at such unexpected gifts, but my mother saw the value and bagged some of the booty to be saved for later. What the troops were throwing to us were some of their special survival rations; high in nutrition, but low in bulk.
I did not realise there was a considerable risk that Hitler would invade, and the South East would be first to be overrun. Mother packed the carefully gathered rations into a small box to be kept in case we had to flee north. They were now our survival rations! The box remained on the pantry shelf until all risk of invasion was over. It was a wise move, and when explained I could see the logic.
We were fortunate not to be bombed out, although our house was shaken a number of times. It had leaded windows, so they were well bent, but never broken. One night the loft cover was blown upward, and deposited upside down to rest neatly back in the hatch. There were many army exercises around us, and have the garden full of soldiers was commonplace. By 1943 Radar was being used, and the Germans began their countermeasures. One morning our garden and all the surrounding area was littered with foil strips, dropped to scatter the beam. It was a dreadful mess, but strangely they seemed to vanish, and I don鈥檛 recall being detailed to clear them up, as there was more urgent work to do in the garden.
The garden was producing much needed vegetables, and even more tree stumps were being cleared. I was seven by this time, and getting used to tackling these monsters. An old rotten Oak was dug out, following a great deal of chopping and rotten chips all over the garden. That night I was woken by something and looked out of the window to see the upturned stump, and all those scattered chips glowing brilliantly in the dark. It was an incredible sight.
鈥淏acteria,鈥� said my mother, 鈥渏ust like the bacon when it goes off.鈥�
Rationing was something that to me had always been there, and I knew nothing of a world without it. The garden was a great help, and Mother, having spent some time in France was a good cook, and could make a meal out of almost anything. Wild blackberries were abundant, and many hours were spent along the verges picking these, which were carefully bottled for the winter. Collecting the weekly groceries was a simple task; just present the ration books, no selection needed and it was all carted home on my bike. Dried egg and milk came in cans, and were very versatile cooking ingredients. We ate nettles and whale meat. The recollection causes me to smile when visiting our local supermarket now.
We went through another period of intense night raids, so Mother bedded us downstairs. This enabled us to listen to the radio in bed. War Report was on each night, and progress was followed as we looked forward to that magic day when there would be peace. The amazing thing is that despite all the bombing, shortages and other privations war brings, I only recall losing the electricity twice, the water once, and never had trouble with the drainage.
Then Hitler, being hard pressed on all fronts made one last desperate attempt to bring Britain down. From sites in occupied Europe he launched the V1 or 鈥楧oodlebug鈥�. This was a crude unmanned aircraft powered by a noisy ramjet engine and it had a warhead packed with explosive. We had three routes, all of them converging on London, one to the south, one directly overhead and another that ran along the North Downs. Of course these things were not accurate, and when the fuel ran out could fall anywhere, but London did suffer considerably. The RAF did their best to shoot them down before they reached the capital. Fighters hit one on the nose right over us one day resulting in the biggest bang I had ever heard. We dived for cover expecting debris to rain down, but there was nothing. Where that one went I do not know, but we emerged, thankful not to have been hit.
For the next few weeks, doodlebugs fell everywhere, and I collected bits of them for souvenirs. One chanced to fall in a field one day, right onto a stream. There was not much to find, but it made a perfect duck pond, and I wonder if it is still there today. The only other thing about doodlebugs that remains in memory is how quickly they rusted. One falling in the afternoon would be red rust in next morning鈥檚 dew, and I wonder about the quality of the steel used. Of course we could hardly expect Hitler to exercise quality control and paint his horrors before sending them over!
Whilst on the subject of metal, mention should be made of the war drive for scrap. We were encouraged to save all metal, and turn it in for the munitions industry. That probably included doodlebugs! I recall hauling home a part of an old car found in the woods one day. A scrap metal man gave me the princely sum of one shilling and sixpence for it. At only eight it was Manna from Heaven.
As the V1s began to peter out, another horror came as the V2. This was a crude rocket, launched on a high trajectory, again aimed at London. The beast had a deadly warhead, but again was not at all accurate. There was no warning.
D Day came, and at last the V1 and V2 launch sites were overrun, thus ending the bombardment. When peace came, the blackout was lifted immediately, but rationing was set to continue for a while. It was a time of relief and celebration, but the severe winter of 1947 was to test us all. Weeks of deep snow and penetrating frost took their toll, and a period of calm brought glazed frost. This frozen drizzle covered everything with ice, and made things so slippery it was almost impossible to stand up.
Very gradually consumer goods started to come back into the shops, TV arrived for the London area, and my secondary education took up some of those immediate post war years. In 1952, I started my National Service, some of which was spent in Germany as a part of the Occupation Force.
I was to discover shortly after 1941 that my parents had divorced, but again my mother told me not to talk about my father鈥檚 work. I had no knowledge of it anyway, but it was not until just before she died in 1984 was I told the truth. It seems that as he had a degree in German, he had been assigned to the Bletchley Park Enigma decoding centre as chief translator. It does explain why my mother told me nothing and not to mention my father. His vital contribution to the war effort had been kept secret for the required thirty years, even from me.
In conclusion I have to say that living in the war years although hard, made me more self-reliant. Even if we had been wealthy there was nothing to spend money on. I learned about gardening, taught myself basic repair skills, and by the time National Service came along knew enough about radio to be a service engineer. I have installed heating systems, built a house extension, and recently had a novel published. Much of my life has been spent as a TV engineer, most of which is self-taught. We had to make the most of what we had in those days, but there were hidden benefits. For my mother, the wartime struggle was much harder, and any regrets that may come to mind are for her. Above all, when writing these accounts we should remember all those who gave their lives so that we might have a future.

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