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This story has been written onto the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People's War site by CSV Storygatherer Lyn Hedges on behalf of John Beale. They fully understand the terms and conditions of the site.

In the summer of 1939, I was nearly eight. One morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table when my uncle said to my mother that you could always tell there was a war coming when you saw maps in the daily papers.

I was at school at Kings College in Rochester, Kent and the governors decided that, instead of breaking up for the summer holidays, we would have a practice evacuation exercise. Off we went on a train, with luggage labels, bearing name, class and destination, tied on our lapels. My group finished up at a large country house in a place called Lamberhurst. I presume a wealthy family owned the house and they were away at the time.

I remember there was a butler who was dressed in a black morning suit and white shirt with wing collar. He fussed about the teachers and totally ignored us boys.

We were allocated beds in upstairs rooms — about ten beds to one room — and fed in relays in a very big room downstairs. There were no lessons but we were taken on long walks in the countryside, and taught about flowers and trees. The weather was perfect and, although I did a lot of crying when I was left alone, I think that I enjoyed myself.

On 3 September, the day after my eighth birthday, we were not allowed to go out for a walk but had to play on the lawns at the front of the house. Sometime just before lunch, we were all called together and addressed by the Headmaster. He told us that war had just been declared and that our parents would be coming down very soon to tell us what we had to do. The news of war meant very little to me, but the fact that Mother was coming was great news.

When she arrived, she told me that everything was going to change. My sister Anne had already left to stay with relations in Yorkshire and I was to follow soon. Mother gave me strict instructions not to cry, bundled me back through the gates into the grounds and was gone. I vividly remember standing just inside those big ornamental gates, kicking the gravel and watching her walking away. I howled and howled and would not be consoled.

Eventually my Uncle Frank arrived to take me up North. I liked him — he had an open sports car, which I thought was the business. He piled my luggage into the back of the car and away we roared.

I have no idea how long that journey took, but eventually we arrived in Cheshire at a place called Alsager to stay with some of Mother’s friends. I was always lonely. My hosts were kind but weren’t used to the ways of small boys.

After what seemed like an age, I was reunited with Mother and my sister Anne in Wakefield, Yorkshire where we remained for the rest of my childhood.

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