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I was seven when war was declared, and as any child of that age, we had no idea of the horror and fear that was going to happen during the next six years.

Early in 1940, Dad built a large, all concrete half-underground shelter in our back garden, covered with about a ton of earth. The first bombing started in August 1940, but the actual blitz began in September. Every time that ‘moaning mini’, the siren, went off, we made straight for the shelter. Mum always had a flask of tea and sandwiches prepared, and we grabbed blankets, our most precious possessions and my favourite toy, and down we went, not knowing how long the raid would last.

When the ‘All clear’ sounded one early morning after a long raid, Mum and Dad must have been very fearful, not knowing if, when we emerged, they would see their house or a pile of rubble. As we stood there, we looked towards London, and the sky was the colour of a beautiful sunset, only brighter. I realised later that this was the sight of London burning, and thinking back, this must have been when they hit the London docks. I can still see and remember that sight even though that was 65 years ago.

In the November of that year, the bombing stopped, and Dad decided to build a shelter inside the house in our dining-room. He almost erected ‘a house within a house.’ He did this mainly because the garden shelter was so cold and damp. This new shelter was so strong that, apart from a direct hit, we felt safe, and that room became our bedroom for the next five years.

To a young boy of my age, war was almost an adventure. Every morning on the way to school, it seemed that every boy and girl had their heads down looking for and collecting shrapnel. If you found a bit with German markings, you were king! I had maps all over the walls as we followed the advance of our troops, and as for aircraft recognition, I think I could name every aircraft flying.

We lived at 17, Lampton Avenue, Hounslow, and at the end of the road there was a large field. Dad was a warden in the ARP and their headquarters, called ‘Post 1.6’, was just inside the field. It was a small, circular building, built of bricks and concrete, with a couple of bunks inside. It had communication to all the services, maps, and the names of all the people living in their area.

In 1944, when D-Day started, we all thought that we were safe. But on the 12th/13th June the first V1 hit London. This was a strange black pilot-less craft in the shape of a tube. I can remember going shopping in Hounslow High Street and I was waiting to come home by bus, when one came over. I will never forget the sound of that pulsating throb of their engines. People could only stand there, praying it kept going, and when it passed, we all breathed again. We were lucky, but I knew sadly that I was watching a disaster that was about to happen to another family. In the borough of Hounslow, only 19 V1s and 2 V2s landed so we were fortunate.

I remember on the evening of the 29th June, all the wardens and members of the rescue squad were all standing just talking, and, of course, I was there, just listening to the grown-ups talking. We were all standing on a large mound where the farmer kept certain vegetables buried and stored. The following morning, Mum and I were in our inside shelter and Dad was on night-shift with the ARP. Suddenly there was the largest explosion I had ever heard and the whole house shook. Mum rushed out of the house and ran towards the field where there was a huge cloud of smoke. The nearer she got to the field, it seemed that every house, although still standing, had its doors and windows out. Because this doodlebug had hit the field, the earth had taken most of the blast. Had it landed in the road, it would have demolished 90% of our avenue and the death rate would have been catastrophic. At that time, Dad was in the field and he heard the throb of the engine. When it cut out, he just dived to the ground and fell in a potato furrow, and the devastating blast went right over his head. He was less than fifty feet away from where the bomb landed, but he was OK. The only thing was that the blast had blown off most of the back of his uniform trousers. I can only be thankful that the farmer had decided not to plant cabbages that year!

Within days, Dad and his friends had arranged for myself and three local boys to be evacuated. They were Peter Smith, Keith Hutchings and Peter cook, and we were whisked down to Mumbles in South Wales. Our gang of four stayed with Carl and Gaven Mock, wonderful people. I will remember and be thankful to them for ever. We stayed there until the Allied troops found and destroyed the doodlebugs’ launching pad. I consider myself very lucky that I and my family survived the war.

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