大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War website by a CSV Action Desk People鈥檚 War Story gatherer on behalf of Barbara Sibley. The story was added to the site with her full permission. She understands the sites terms and conditions.

In 1939 we were living on the ground floor of an Edwardian terraced house in Leytonstone, East London. My first actual memory is being carried across the small back garden on my cot matress, with various toys to the Anderson shelter because of an impending Air-Raid and marvelling at the stars in the sky.

Subsequently I was often put to bed in the Air Raid shelter after tea, If raids seemed likely. I remember, after one raid, sitting on my Fathers shoulders, holding onto his head and watching London burn. We had walked to the road bridge over the railway and we all just stared at the distant red glow in the sky. When my Father told me that London was burning I thought of the song I had learned - 'London's Burning' and tapped out the rhythm on my Father's head.

The Air-Raid shelter is associated with many happy memories - stories, games, meals and playtimes with friends. During the day, the shelter (or 'dug out') became a life-sized Wendy House. The appropriate toys were kept there more or less permantly, leaving little room for anything else, as my Father often complained.

Father was not "called up" as he was in a 'reserved occupation' on the railway. We hardly ever saw him as he worked every day from 7am until 7pm and until noon on Sundays. He was in the Home Guard and the A.R.P. Volunteers took turns in doing Fire watch duty for the A.R.P. It was while my Father was performing this duty one evening that I can remember being truly terrified.

There was a most relentless Air Raid taking place and I will never forget the deafening explosions and the vibrations which seemed to travel through my teeth. When it was finally over and the 'All Clear' sounded, my Mother and I scrambled out (In my night clothes) to see if Daddy was safe. He was, but the row of six terraced houses opposite were reduced to rubble.

Volunteers gathered to dig people out and I was quickly ushered indoors by my Mother to help make tea for the people who had been 'bombed out'. I remember being upset when my Grandfather brought in an old Gentleman who was crying - I didn't know men could cry. He had lost his little dog. Some time later we all cried when Grandad returned with the said dog who greeted his master enthusiastically.

In the morning, with the typical childish selfishness, I looked out of the window at the rubble that had been 'my six houses with green doors' and bemoaned the fact that I could no longer make up stories about the people who lived in them.

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