大象传媒

Although I was only six years old when World War ll started, my vivid memories of the conflict and the affects on the civilian population seem clearer than my visit to the supermarket last week!

In the bleak winter of 1940/41 German bombs fell on our neighbourhood in Mitcham. On the opposite side of the road two sticks of high explosive bombs fell.

I can still remember the noise that the bombs made when they were falling; it wasn鈥檛 so much a screech or a whistle as witnesses frequently describe such an event. It was more like the unfolding and crumpling of a giant sheet of baking foil.
The whole sequence of events lasted about twenty seconds in real time but to my family crammed into a Morrison shelter that night, the noise and subsequent explosion seemed to last an age.
As the bomb noise got louder and louder I could feel my mother giving me a huge squeeze and then a thunderous explosion confirmed that we were not to be the recipients.

Realising too, that my life was still in danger from asphyxiation my mother relaxed her squeeze and gave my sister and I an affectionate kiss. I can still recall the relief of surviving that particular experience as if it was yesterday, even though I was only eight years old.

The sticky tape on the front windows prevented much of the glass from flying into the room. Even so, the window frame itself was dislodged inwards and seven of the eight glass windowpanes were smashed.
Sections of damaged curtains hung limply from the pelmet and the night air harassed by a gentle breeze fluttered them like flags waving in brave defiance.

We clambered out, crawling over the mesh sides and soon discovered that a cloud of dust hung hazily over the room. Everything was strangely silent and the moonlight shinning through the distorted widow frame gave an eerie appearance.

Mum was the first to speak 鈥淓veryone all right鈥� we all nodded and she quickly ushered us into the kitchen at the back of the house.

As we moved past the front door we discovered that it too had been blown in by the blast.

We could hear activity of various kinds in the street outside and Mum was anxious that we should not become involved in the general neighbourly discourse that followed emergencies such as this.
It is amazing how a cup of cocoa can comfort a distressed six year old at 3 o/clock in the morning.
I was evacuated from London on three seperate occassions.

The first time was in 1939, the Family went to live with friends in Chippenham, Wiltshire. Returning to London when inactivity in Europe spawned the phrase 鈥楾he Phoney War鈥�.

It was following the return from Chippenham that the events relating to the bombing described earlier occurred. My Father, who was in a reserved occupation, immediately set about arranging the Family鈥檚 second evacuation as the London Blitz got under way.

We were sent to a small cottage without water 鈥� electricity 鈥� or sanitation in the small hamlet of Orston nr Grantham and there we stayed until a German bomber being chased by British night fighters decided to drop his cargo of bombs anywhere in an attempt to avoid combat.

It was the first time that the locals had witnessed any form of conflict and were devastated to find that the village hall and a large part of the village had been demolished.

It was now 1942 and my Mother now demanded that my Father should bring us home, explaining that if we were going to be blown to bits it might just as well be in London as a God forsaken place miles from anywhere. We were home within a few weeks and the worst of the Blitz was over.

Life continued at Home in an almost customary manner. There were occasional air raids but nothing on the scale of those previously witnessed.

I had an enormous Daily Express map of North Africa on my bedroom wall and followed the victories of the 8th Army with great gusto. Little pinned flags with Union Jacks or Swastikas adorned the Desert region and these eventually climbed up to the heel of Italy.

However, later as the Allied Armies were invading the Normandy coastline a new threat to our lives became apparent.

The enemy unleashed the first of their 鈥榁ictory鈥� weapons. 鈥� The Flying Bomb, nicknamed the 鈥楧oodlebug鈥� by the civilian population.
It was 1944 and my next encounter with the enemy would contribute to my third and final evacuation.
I was returning home from school without a care in the world. The weather was perfect; the cloudless sky gave no clue of the threat that was about to change my life.

I was with a school friend, although for many years I have not been able to recall whom. We almost certainly would have been making schoolboy small talk.

Perhaps talking excitedly about the progress the Allies were making in Europe following the Normandy landings. Everyone had been telling us the War would soon be over.

It very nearly was for me on that beautiful summer鈥檚 day.

We had been used to the continual noise, as armadas of allied aircraft with black and white stripes on their wings filled the skies on a regular daily basis.

We therefore paid little attention to the drone of a far off aircraft, after all no air raid warning had sounded.

I remember looking up to see a tall man crashing his bicycle into the kerb adjacent to where we were standing. Out of the corner of my eye I became conscious of a dark shape descending from above a
nearby factory and at that instant the stranger had grabbed hold of both my companion and myself and all three of us were flung to the ground in a heap against someone鈥檚 front brick wall.

We had hardly come to a standstill before a deafening explosion caused immense pain to my eardrums and my vision became impaired as thick dust blinded us and left me gasping for breath.
Debris, slates, glass and splinters were everywhere.

As we got to our feet brushing the white dust from our clothes the first thing we saw was that the house at the end of the garden wall against which we had sheltered - was no more.

Well it wasn鈥檛 recognisable as a house! The front wall had been blown out and thrown over the front garden and into the road. The roof was hanging lamely onto a few remaining rafters and as we stared at the scene slates were still falling like dominoes.

A small fire was visible from the interior of the rubble from which black smoke curled through the debris as if it were seeking fresh air in the still perfectly blue sky above.

People were making a fuss of us. I was offered a glass of milk, which I began to down in large gulps. A friendly lady had put her arms around me and slowly I was ushered further down the street towards a small sweet shop.

I never saw the man on the bicycle again nor did I ever learn his name. I know that later several people tried to find out who he was. Perhaps he was an angel. I would like to think he was my Guardian Angel.

There is little doubt in my mind that I would not be writing this sequence of events if it were not for that gentleman cyclist.

My parents were horrified when they heard of my near brush with disaster and the third and final evacuation was absolute.

I was sent to Gloucester, to stay with very elderly relatives. Enduring yet another change of school and a most dull existence. I was rescued by my Mother in the Spring of 1945 rightly anticipating that the War in Europe was soon to end.

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