大象传媒

My Nan has told me this story of her brother, My Great Uncle Bert, since I was little. I've heard it lots of times but it still makes both of us laugh!
It was in 1942 when it happened. The sirens had gone off in the middle of the cold night to warn the residents that nazi bombers were heading for Wolverhampton. My nan and her family hurried out of bed, grabbed their pre-made sandwhichs and literally flew down the stairs to their Anderson air shelter in the garden.
My nan had just reached the bottom of the stairs, 17 year-old Bert just coming down, when a deafening crash echoed in the house. Frightened it may be a bomb, my terrified family ran as fast as their legs could carry them, racing into the air aid shelter. When all of the family entered the damp and dank shelter, shivering in their pyjama's, and no close explosion was heard a great sigh of relief spread over them.
My Great nan turned to Bert. Just as they had reached the back door, Bert had yelped that something had hit him very sharply as he was coming down the stairs.
"Where did it hit son," my great nan asked.
"My cheek mum," Bert replied.
"Can I see?"
"I'm not showing you!" an indignant answer came.

It had hit his cheek.
Just NOT the one on his face!
It was, would you believe, a part of a bomb. A tail of a nazi bomb that had come loose, which looked like a Milking stool according to my nan. It had crashed through the roof of my nan's house and hit my Great Uncle Bert on the, um, butt cheek.
Needless to say poor Bert got a very bad bruise where it had hit!

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