大象传媒

Growing up during World War 2 has inevitably left its mark. As a nine-year old in a politically conscious household, I was aware of the tensions preceding the outbreak of war and heard bitter arguments between friends who had joined the Peace Pledge Union and my father who was convinced that appeasement was quite wrong-headed when we were faced with Hitler. I remember the grim solemnity of going with my family to the local school one evening to be fitted with face masks which we carried everywhere in the early years of the war and regularly practised wearing in school. Blackout blinds were made for all our windows, and were fitted every evening at sunset. Air raid wardens (all local volunteers) patrolled the streets to ensure no chink of light appeared. There was no street lighting. Going out after dark involved carrying a shielded torch and carefully pointing it downwards to create a path for one's feet to follow. My father and I walked twice a week in the evening to the local library by torchlight and the stars. That was when he taught me the names of the constellations.

There was hardly any traffic apart from buses and army lorries on the move. The few car owners there were at that time had to lay them up for the duration, as petrol was available for doctors and other essential users only. Coal, bread and milk were delivered by horse-drawn carts. The streets were a wonderful communal playground, the scene of games such as French cricket, rounders, kick the can, and 'What's the time, Mr Wolf?'.

The initial seriousness of the war was deepened by Dunkirk. No longer did children's matinees at the cinema resound with the communal singing of 'We're gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line'. We felt vulnerable. Later on, I remember the shocked tones of a neighbour who had come to tell my mother she'd just heard on the wireless that Singapore had fallen.

Living halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow we were not exposed to the air raids suffered by many but we were under the flight path as enemy bombers crossed to Clydebank and I still have vivid memories of the searchlights seeking out the planes and the drone of the bomber's engines punctuated by the sound of our anti-aircraft guns. When the warning sirens sounded we were ready to use the shelter in the garden and always had little cases packed, containing essential documents such as birth certificates, ration books and savings certificates. The high note of the 'All Clear' was always a blessed relief.

Clydebank was so badly devastated that our school was closed for a few days to provide emergency accommodation and meals for people who had been made homeless. I remember helping the Domestic Science room to prepare food. Neighbours with a spare room had to make it available, first for a family from Clydebank and later for Polish army officers - the Polish HQ in Scotland was a mile away!

Ration books did ensure a fair distribution of food but foods like oranges and bananas hardly ever appeared. My father dug up a beloved flower border to extend the vegetable garden.

My brother served in the Royal Engineers from 1942-1947, arriving in France 3 days after D-Day and moving right through the fighting to Germany.

Because we had no telephone we never knew when he was coming home on leave and I remember once, when I was up late studying, he arrived unexpectedly and sat exhausted, telling me a harrowing tale of comrades dying, he being one of the few survivors in his platoon. As a Royal Engineer he was engaged in clearing minefields and in constructing pontoon bridges while under fire.

Later on after being in the BAOR he was drafted to Palestine but became ill in Egypt en route and returned to Britain until his demobilisation in June 1947.

It was only recently that I discovered he hadn't talked so openly to my parents or to his twin sister. It is only recently he has talked to his own grown-up children about his wartime experiences.

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