大象传媒

This is not really my story, but I don鈥檛 know anyone still living who can tell it. My uncle Fred and his wife Flo, (my mother鈥檚 sister) and their son Roy, lived in the first house in Charlton Road, Kingswood, a district in the East of Bristol, England. (Roy was 10 years old and I was 11 years old).

The authorities had told the civilian population that if they did not have an 鈥淎nderson Shelter鈥� in their garden, the safest place to be in an air raid, was under the staircase.

The Air Raid siren had sounded so Fred and Flo were preparing a bed for Roy under the stairs. He was lying on the sofa in the living room with Rheumatic Fever and could not move without aid.

The authorities had also advised householders to turn off the gas supply to the house when there was an air raid. This came into their house via a pipe behind the front door, so Uncle Fred went there to turn it off. There was a pane of glass above the door, and he called out to his wife,
鈥淔lo come and see this, it鈥檚 just like daylight out here鈥�.
The German bombers had dropped flares to illuminate the area. Fred rejoined the Flo under the stairs.

It is said that you never hear the sound of the bullet which kills you; the bullet travels faster than the speed of sound. It must be true also of bombs. They used to design their bombs to make a screaming sound as they fell, to terrify the civilians. Fred and Flo heard no sound of a bomb falling, just a high explosion, and the house fell in on them with a loud crash. Then silence.

Fred told us that he realised he was up to his chest in rubble and could not move. Then he heard roof timbers cracking, and another crash as more of the house came down on them. He said he thought as it happened 鈥渢his is the end鈥�, but to his surprise the debris dropped to below his waist and he was able to wriggle free. Flo was further under the stairs and was not covered so much.

Fred immediately made his way over the debris towards the living room to find Roy. After a few minutes he realised that he was two doors away. The bomb had taken out three houses, and three shops along the main road. Fred and Flo were then moved to safer accommodation to get over the shock. The authorities had been correct; the stairs had saved their lives.

The story now moves to St George, a district a mile or two towards the centre of Bristol. In fact to my own home where I lived with my parents Alf, Win and my sister who was about four years old.

My dad was the local Air Raid Warden and his "Station鈥� was in a large Air Raid shelter in the corner of St Georges Park, behind St Ambrose Church.

Being a Warden dad heard of all the bombs which fell in the locality. He returned home to tell us, and he sought out Fred and Flo to tell them that their bomb was not the only one that fell that night. That St Ambrose Church hall was being used as a temporary mortuary. He had been helping to lay out the bodies as they were being brought in there. (He was well used to handling dead bodies, having been a stretcher bearer in France throughout the First World War). He reported that Roy鈥檚 body was there, and that they could go and see him if they wanted. He said that there was not a mark on him. When the bomb fell he had covered himself with his blanket and floor joists and boarding had fallen across him, protecting him from the debris which fell on top of him. He had in fact suffocated.

Fred and Flo lived out the remainder of the war in temporary accommodation in St George. After the war the three houses were rebuilt, and they returned to live out the rest of their days in peace and sorrow. Fred never forgave the Germans for what they had done. They are now all together in their family grave in Avon View Cemetery. The grave was and still is marked by a stone in the form of an open book which reads:

For
Darling Roy
Killed by Enemy Action, November 24, 1940
Age 10
Mum and Dad

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