大象传媒

I have just passed my 80th birthday, and among the many memories of my war is Evacuation. I was a new, young Welsh teacher, eager to tackle my first post in the London area, as there were no jobs for us in our homeland. Daily, we endured misery, fear and constant apprehension. Most nights our stomachs chruned at the wail of the Air Raid warning sirens, and fear kept us awake while loud explosions rumbled in the distance and the sky became roaring red with flames from burning fies. Every morning, life returned to near normality. We got to work on time; shops opened (where they were still standing), public services were repaired and back in action as soon as possible.
Sometimes there was a raid during the day too, because the "doodle-bug" had arrived. This was a missile sent in our direction at random without anyone knowing where and when it would land and explode: first a long droning sound, followed by an ominous silence during which we prayed that this one was not meant for us! Our job as teachers was to accompany classes to underground shelters. There we sat, trying to ignore all the disturbing noises and carry on with lessons as usual. Gradually we all became more tired, pale and listless.
Suddenly, one day, we were all summoned to County Hall and told we were to be evacuated to somewhere in Wales. I could not believe it! South Wales was my home and I had become very homesick facing possible death every day.
We had three days to prepare. Three days!! This was too long for me, for the morbid side of my Celtic nature feared this was time enough to die before I could go home.
The day arrived. We went in groups to Paddington station, equipped with one small case each, a bag of sandwiches and the inevitable gas mask draped over one shoulder. The station was bustling with crowds of children and women...women everywhere! Mothers,grandmothers and aunts had all come to see off their precious cargo: no men, they were fighting the war!
"You will look after our little Johnny/Jimmy/Clara/Mabel," (the list was endless), "won't you Miss?" How could I tell them I didn't know which child was which until I read the label on their clothing? Tears flowed freely as the train steamed out and parents ran down the platform after it waving soggy hankies; symbols of the pain they hid from the children. They hoped they were sending them to safety yet felt distress at the thought they might never see them again. I felt deep sadness thinking of the misery that one human being could inflict on another and guilt because all this mean I was going home.
The train chugged on and the children became very subdued. Some slept. Others sat in misery, tears rolling down their cheeks. There was none of the usual chatter: only anxiety about what lay ahead.
The sandwiches were dry and I would have given anything for a cup of tea. We were due to arrive in Cardiff at five o'clock. I felt sure that the Welsh people with whom I was familar would be warm and kindly and welcoming to strangers. Not so!! We were greeted by councillors, the mayor and a few pompous dignitaries...an no-one smiled!
They ushered us onto buses, each one heading for a different village; ours was up in The Rhondda Valley, where we were told to wait in the local chapel. I should say the cold and musty vestry, for the chapel was not to be sullied.
There were fifty in our group: forty-seven children and three adults. It was beginning to get dark and we were asked to wait until our hosts arrived to collect us. So we sat in miserable silence. In due course in they came: elderly men in flat caps wearing their best suits. Their wives too were dressed in their best, all wearing hats and gloves smelling of mothballs. A formidable group!
The children were silent, and some cried. The adults were obviously apprehensive about taking these "cheeky little cockneys". Some were volunteers, but most had been told that children would be billeted with them if they had a spare room.
I had pictured a welcome in some cheerful hall, where tables would be laid with plates of fresh bread and scones, Welsh women in their "pinnies" serving steaming cups of tea from huge kettles or urns. I must have forgotten there was a war on! I had been remembering happy childhood days when teas in the vestry were a great event and we all laughed while eating thick slices of plain yellow cake.
Gradually, the children all left and it was my turn. A Mrs.Thomas, thin faced and unsmiling, collected me. She lived alone and liked it! She showed me to a cold bedroom and grudgingly offered me a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit. Ugh! I was wretched in my homeland and my heart was heavy, picturing the equally wretched children scattered everywhere, crying themselves to sleep.
The morning came. Bright sunshine dawned on a new day and a new life. We now know that many children soon settled down, some in farmhouses where there was plenty of good food. They grew stronger and healthier and some lucky children even had the odd visit from a parent who in turn went back to London relieved and better able to face the danger.
I have heard some people say that the years of evacuation were a turning point in their lives. Even when the war was over they kept in touch with their "vacuee" parents whom they had grown to love. Some cared enough about Wales to return there and settle down happily.
I wish I had known all that on that first miserable night.

END - Doreen Nalder

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