大象传媒

It must have been 1942, night raids were still frequent.
At the top end of Courland Street was a warehouse which had many different materials stored in it. These included Flax [I am not sure what this is but I think it is some sort of oil]
and sugar. These facts I learned much later from my Father.
On this particular night the siren sounded and my mother ushered me, my brother aged 14 and my sister down the shelter. My Father and elder brother were wardens and reported to the ARP post at the end of the street.
We first heard the AA guns on Clapham Common pouding away, a tremendous noise which frightend me and, also made me feel safe. Then we heard the first planes, that undulating drone typical of German Luftwaffe. Then the first bombs in the distance. As they got closer we all crouched together in the shelter hugging each other tightly as each CRUMP of bomb burst got nearer and nearer. Then they were over the top of us, the droning of the planes, the rushing of bombs as they fell to earth, the crash of the AA guns, the noise was over whelming.
At 7 years old I don't know how we coped but, the mind must go into a sort of hibernation to stop you going mad.
Slowly the planes passed and the sound of bombs receded into the distance.
The last crash of gun fire from the common.
Then an eerie silence.
We waited to see if another wave of planes were coming over. An hour passed and, though the all clear had not sounded Mum said she was going to make a cup of tea.
I remember I never liked this, I was always afraid that the planes would suddenly come back. Mum finally came back to the shelter with drinks and said the warehouse was on fire and there were lots of firemen.
The following morning we ventured out into the street, the fire in the warehouse was under control but, because of the contents, was still burning merrily.
The most amazing thing was the gutters were full of incendiary bombs. The raid had been what we termed and incendiary raid, high explosive to break open the buildings then incendiary bombs to start the fires.
Somehow hundreds of incendiaries had failed to go off and they had hit the roof and rolled into the gutter and on to the gardens, into the streets and roads.
Wardens, including my father and brother, policemen and some home guard were collecting them in buckets half filled with sand and taking them down the road.
After the war the stories emerged of slave and forced labour being used in German war factories and these people had sabotaged the things they were making.
I am sure that had something to do with our night of unexploded incendiary bombs.

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