大象传媒

I was four when we arrived in England in 1937, from Malta, where I was born. My Father, an able seaman in the Royal Navy was due to retire in 1939.

After living in lodgings in Portsmouth, the family found a place at No. 2, Lavinia Road, Gosport, where I first heard the declaration of war on an old wireless set. It was solemnly read out, I believe, by 大象传媒's News Announcer, Alvair Liddell. Dad, wearing his three-striped naval uniform and hunched over the set, turned to my Mum.

"Ma," he said in shocked tones: "Listen to this - We're at War"

Dad was posted to the monitor, Erebus, having been kept on in the Navy, though due for retirement. We moved to 68 Avenue Road, Gosport: a quite modern house for those times, with even an upstairs toilet.

The first months of the War were relatively quiet, with just a few German planes making sorties over Portsmouth Harbour, and the occasional dog fight in the sky, which my brother, Ernie, and I would watch from the top of the Anderson shelter at the bottom of our garden. Dad had shrewedly bolstered it with sandbags, which our next door neighbours, Lawrence, dismissed as unnecessay because the War would soon be over: a misjudgement they later tragically paid for.

What was known as the 'Phoney War' had its moments, especially when walking with friends down a country road just outside Gosport, we had to scuttle under the trees when a scavaging German plane dived over. It seemed an exciting time with no real threat: almost living out a Hollywood film. After all, the British Empire was invincible, everyone believed.

Even the Dunkirk crisis did not puncture this insular vision, yet even as a young boy of six I emotionally sensed the anxiety of the adults around. Talk of invasion and possible defeat was considered unpatriotic, but occasionaly my Mum and Dad would chat on such a possibility. She was Jewish.

The Erebus, which was no more than a floating gun platform, was used to shell the French coast, then my Father, being deemed too old for active service afloat, was posted first to the C-in-C Portsmouth's house establishment as a gardener, then to H.M.S Daedalus, Lee-on-Solent, as a storeman.

The months following Dunkirk were continuous wailing Willie interruptions (air raid sirens) to our schooldays, carrying boxed gas masks tied to a string shoulder strap, and the luxury of eating the weekly ration of one real egg with chips on a Friday night. Afterwards, we would go to the Ritz, the local picture house. And it was after one such performance on 10th March, 1941 when the reality of War hit myself and family.

After the Battle of Britain, the Luftwaffe reverted to night bombing. We would regularly be disturbed from our sleep, sometimes two or three times a night, to go down the shelter. I recall that it was fitted out with four bunks and a primus stove, essential for brewing tea.

That night in early March, 1941, parts of the Fleet were in Portsmouth Harbour, so the Luftwaffe decided to concentrate their bombing efforts on such a prime military target. It didn't quite work out that way.

The film showing at the Ritz was 'Jack Benny Rides Again' (which sticks in the memory because to the family I was, and still am, called Benny). Halfway through the performance the usual flash appeared on screen, warning that an air raid was in progress. Most people usually ignored such
an alarm.

Then the lights and screen went out and we were hustled through the emergency doors onto the street. Walking back home, I remember looking across the Harbour and seeing crisscrossing searchlights in the sky and the whole of Portsmouth lit up with flames. The blaze from the Landport Drapery Bazaar, with its magical toy department, added to the daylight scene.

Midst all the noise and smoke, we made our way back to Avenue Road, this time really frightened and semi-hysterical, especially my Mum, who had spent most of her young life in Turkey and Malta. That night we were bundled in blankets and taken down to the shelter twice, only to return to bed when the All Clear sounded. The third visit
was the last time we saw our house - or one of my young mates next door.

My Brother and I would play a game (when not quarreling about who had the top bunk: my sisters Becky and Violet shared the two opposite) of counting the bombs that fell. They made a horrible, shrill whistling sound that, if suddenly cut off, you knew were going to land close. Late that night a chorus of these piercing sounds seemed to be right over our head - then they fell silent.

As a young boy, I recall the sense of fear in the shelter. We all buried our heads under the blankets while my Mum, on her knees, kept repeating a prayer to the Virgin Mary. Then the loud explosion and noise of falling debris that followed, left me numb and terrified.I have the impression that I wet my pyjama bottom. The electric light bulb in the Anderson went out, and the girls joined their mother in the prayerful mantra. Even worse, we couldn't get out.

Now my Dad, when off-duty from H.M.S. Daedelus, would act as an air raid warden. It was he and two other wardens who eventually cleared enough rubble for us to scramble through the door of the shelter. The night sky was glowing and the air stank of smoke and cordite, but it like emerging from a black hole and back to life.

My Dad had a hat in his hands, and I remember him saying to the other wardens that someone's brains was in it. That chilling description haunted me for many years. Apparently, because of the lack of sandbag and earth protection, the blast from the explosion had crushed the Lawrence shelter and wiped out the whole of the family inside, including my playmate. The house on the other side of us was in flames, and as we were bundled away by my Father I imagined I heard the screams of the old lady who lived there and stubbornly neverused her shelter. The rescuers were not able to save her.

As for my Father? He later related how when he heard a whooshing sound overhead, he dived flat one the floor. It was only brick wall between him and the exlosion some few feet away that saved his life. Nevertheless, one eardrum had been punctured and he needed to get treatment as soon as possible.

In the early hours of the morning we walked down Forton Road to the medical centre that was part of the boy's naval training school, H.M.S. Vincent (Ernie was to attend there in 1946 then, many many years later, become its Master-at-Arms). That night we spent sleeping on the living room floor of sister Violet's Mother-in-Law. Violet was pr3egnant at the time and her Husband, Percy, an able seaman in the Navy, was away on board a destroyer Soon after we were blitzed,I developed fits.

Part Two (under new contribution) Evacuated
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