大象传媒

This story was submitted by a volunteer on behalf of Dolores E Powell, by her request, and permission, and Dolores fully understands the house rules. This is an adaptation of her book Clipped Wings.

A Seven year old Child鈥檚 Acclimatisation to War

My mother and I were in the kitchen of the council house where we lived, on the Hillfields Estate at Fishponds. Suddenly, she left the strenuous work of wringing, heavy wet sheets, through the large iron mangle to switch on the radio. We both listened to the sombre voice of Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, saying something to the effect that Germany had marched into Poland and that 鈥榯his country is now at war with Germany鈥�. My mother put her arms around me and started to cry. Thus children throughout the world were compelled to share the griefs of war. I was just seven years old.

After Chamberlain鈥檚 speech we all waited for something to happen, but things seemed to remain the same. This time was referred to as 鈥淭he Phoney War鈥�. However, insidiously, things began to change very gradually; a type of acclimatisation to the real war to come.

Preparations for War

First, there was the arrival of a huge cardboard box which contained a large contraption, which turned out to be a baby鈥檚 gas mask. My mother had a practice run, reading carefully the enclosed instructions and then placing the baby inside.

Later on we received smaller square boxes which contained our own individual face masks which we were told we would have to take to school with us. The smell of the rubber of the masks was quite revolting, conjuring up visits to the dentist, when in order to keep our mouths open for tooth extraction we were given a hard rubber wedge upon which to bite.

There was so much talk. There was talk of food and clothing having to be rationed; of 鈥渄igging for victory鈥� and allotments. These were new words I had not heard before. We heard of fathers being 鈥榗alled up鈥� and of several of my uncles receiving their 鈥榗alling up papers鈥�. Phrases like 鈥榤ilitary service鈥�, 鈥榮erving one鈥檚 country鈥�, 鈥榗onscientious objectors鈥� and 鈥榳ar effort鈥�, cropped up regularly in everyday conversation. Some words were so new and strange they needed explanation, and even then they were not fully understood. One such word was 鈥榪ueue鈥� - which I had yet to experience. Today, the concept of queuing is entrenched in our culture and to 鈥榡ump a place or push in front of someone in a British queue is almost a national crime and looked upon with horror.

Other words like 鈥榤unitions鈥� and 鈥榖lackout鈥� became familiar. There was much whispering as we were warned that 鈥榗areless talk costs lives鈥� and that it could aid and inform our enemies. It was hinted that spies could be anywhere. Later, posters appeared carrying such slogans as 鈥榃alls have Ears鈥� and 鈥榖e like Dad; Keep Mum鈥�.

The blackout meant that we had to make sure that no lights could be seen from the air. Curtains had to be drawn so as not to allow even a chink of light to be seen from the outside. The glass of the street lamps were painted a matt black and later were put out altogether. Streets, towns and cities were indeed blacked out.

There was talk of children鈥檚 eyesight being affected; people began to worry, but still the talk prevailed with increasing complexity. There were 鈥榓ir raids鈥�. 鈥楤ombing鈥�, Anderson shelters鈥�, sirens and 鈥榓ll-clears鈥�. Conversations became frighteningly threatening. There was talk of possible invasion and the evacuation of children from towns and cities into the countryside.

Talk of Evacuation and The Phoney War

How we children feared evacuation. My mother put our minds at rest; she had made up her mind that we would all stay together and if the worst was to come, die together. It seemed, however, that 鈥榳orld war鈥� was not so bad at all; it was only something people talked about. How wrong we were!

The next stage seemed to be a type of practice or playing at war for us children. We had practice air raids drills. The sirens would sound randomly and we had to act out the raid and seek shelter. These were carried out both at home and at school. We almost welcomed them at school because out lessons were interrupted. We would groan at the sound of the 鈥榓ll-clear鈥� because then lessons would resume.

Many fathers joined the Home Guard (originally the Local Defence Volunteer) but appeared to be guarding nothing at all. What a false sense of security it gave! People, quite rightly, began to wonder whether they would ever experience or recognise the real thing.

The First Air Raid

We experienced was equally unconvincing. We had been warned that German planes had been spotted over the Bristol Channel. We did not worry as most people thought they would not reach inland because most coastal areas were barricaded with search-lights, 鈥榓ck-ack鈥� guns and barrage balloons.

I had seen my first barrage balloon in St George鈥檚 Park. Because of the warnings my mother did not want us to go to school, nevertheless, we did go. Our practices stood us in good stead. When the sirens sounded we lined up with our gas masks over our shoulders and made our way to an above-ground air raid shelter 鈥� which was later declared unsafe - where we stayed until the 鈥榓ll-clear鈥� sounded, then we were sent home. We could not believe we had experienced a real air raid, but later learned that a German plane had been shot down over a coastal region.

Such incidents recurred with ever-increasing reality. We learned to recognise the difference in sound between the sinister, low pulsating throb of a German Messerschmidt and our own Spitfires, which had a more comforting continuous hum. Now and then we would hear distant gunfire, but still the action seemed far from the West Country. My parents began to read aloud to us from the national papers. They began to relate stories of bombing raids and loss of life in other parts of the country. We began to feel really threatened. "It could be us next", was a common saying. Locally, people began to wonder why we were not suffering. After all, we did have a munitions factory at the back of our house. Cossham hospital, a mile or so away, was especially a landmark, and wasn鈥檛 the BAC factory at Filton a crucial target through its aircraft building?

Rumours and Spies

Rumours began to circulate. They began with the air raid wardens and seemed to centre on St Bede鈥檚 Church at the top of our road. At first they were dismissed, but the local Wardens believed that the local vicar was a spy and had a way of contacting the Germans. The talk was that our immediate area was not being bombed as Cossham Hospital was being use as a convenient landmark for German planes aided, of course by the local vicar of St Bede鈥檚 (Mr X).

There were tales of a pulsating light having been seen from the vicar鈥檚 house. Eventually it was revealed that Mr X had been a Black Shirt 鈥� a follower of Oswald Moseley. These were known to be pro-Fascist and many were already in prison. We were told Mr X disappeared soon after these rumours started. We also heard that radio transmitters had been found in his cellar, and because of his pro-Fascist history, he had been put into prison as well. If ordained ministers could be spies who could be trusted! In this climate of fear and trepidation the war continued.

Food, Cooking and Rationing

Ration books with stamps were issued for each person. Suddenly, to have a large family was an asset! We had extra rations and extra clothing coupons. This, together with my father鈥檚 allotment and the eggs and poultry from his pullets and Rhode Island Reds meant we were better fed than most. Our table was always full of fresh garden produce and all kinds of delicious home-made puddings, tarts and cakes. My mother even managed to make sweets during the war years. Fortunately, our next door neighbour had a small orchard so toffee apples could also be made. In addition, there were tins of pink and white coconut ice and small peppermint sweets that we used to call 鈥榤intoes鈥�. Peanut brittle could also be made quite cheaply. My favourite was my mother鈥檚 鈥楥runchie鈥�. It was fascinating to watch it being made. The toffee and golden syrup was put into a saucepan and when it reached boiling point my mother would sprinkle a teaspoonful of bicarbonate of soda into it. Almost immediately it would change into a golden creamy froth that could be poured into shallow tins. Not every family could afford such delights, but our sugar ration was quite substantial. I remember going to a neighbours house for tea, and recoiling in amazement when they asked me to stay for tea 鈥� it consisted of bread and jam sandwiches!

Later in the war years my mother used to exchange certain rations for things we really needed. There was much trading of clothes and food coupons. I knew other families were finding it hard, as some children used to take to school a mixture of sugar and cocoa in paper bags and would dip in their fingers just like sherbet. The chewing of liquorice root was also a form of compensation for the lack of sweets.

Our eating habits gradually changed. At the beginning of the war my Dad had been allowed to sell his eggs and poultry, but we found we could not afford to buy the food for the hens so, at night when it was dark, my father would pilfer the food from the 鈥榩ig bins鈥� allocated to each street to collect food scraps for animal feed. In each street the bin was usually situated at the foot of a lamp post, and people were instructed to put into it all their vegetable and fruit peelings, as well as any leftover food. The bins were emptied by the council workers and distributed to the farmers for the feeding of their pigs. There was never very much to collect from Cherry Tree Road, most of it went into my father鈥檚 poultry! The stench was terrible when it was cooked in a large pan on the stove, but my mother was terrified that my father would be discovered, as she thought that it was illegal, and I suspect that it probably was. My father loved us very much and believed that all was fair in love and war, and his family would be his priority.
To Be Continued

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