大象传媒

It was the summer of 1942 the war had been on for about three years, I was nearly five, and it was my first day at school. I set off that morning, tightly holding mum's hand. Around my neck was a loop of string, attached to it was a cardboard box, and inside was my gas mask. Gasmasks were supplied to everyone, as it was feared that gas weapons, would be used in air raids on the population of the UK.

There were three types of masks issued to the public. One was the adult one; it had a big black facemask with a huge filter on the bottom made from black smelly rubber, with a clear oval plastic slot in the front to see through. The second was like mine; it was supposed to look like Mickey Mouse with red ears large eyes, and a red tongue. Designed to encourage children to use them, though to me, it looked horrific, more like something out of a scary Stephen Spielberg film. If I remember correctly, I found it quite hard to breath in it. Any air that entered the mask, first had to be sucked through the thick filter, and back again when breathing out. It was lucky; we never had a real reason to use them, as I don鈥檛 think I could have sat in mine for long. The third kind was fully covered in, like a cat box, used for babies. They were totally immersed inside, with a manual bellows type pump to keep the little one supplied with fresh air, as the baby鈥檚 lungs were not strong enough to do the job for themselves.

We arrived at fosters school, and I was left, with a group of other children all looking lost and a little apprehensive with our cardboard boxes strung around our necks, and our names and addresses sewn inside our jackets. It was a government instruction that all children should comply with these rules. We stood there looking all forlorn, reminiscent of a collection of scruffy Dickens figures. Mr Chambers, the headmaster, greeted us; he welcomed us to his school and led us to our classroom then introduced us to our elderly teacher, Mrs Wheatley who instructed us, what to do if the air raid siren sounded. This was a long up and down whaling sound (Waaaoooowaaaooo,) from the siren situated at the police box on Welling corner. We were all told 鈥� you must walk in an orderly manor to the shelters, at the far end of the playground. Do not run do not talk. These instructions are most important; everybody has to know exactly what to do.鈥�

The teacher kept on and on about the evacuation instructions and repeated them over and over again. Finally to reinforce the point she would ask us questions. As youngsters, we couldn鈥檛 see what all the fuss was about; bombs and air raids were the norm in our young lives, they were everyday events. Once the warning siren had sounded, we all gathered in the shelters, and would occupy our time by doing makeshift lessons. One, chanting our times tables. Two, hold spelling tests. Three, do mental arithmetic. But what we all preferred to do was, our teacher would start to tell a story that she had made up, then stop, point to a child who had to continue the next part of the tale, and so on, until all of us had told a piece of the story. Some of the stories the kid鈥檚 dreamt up even had the teachers laughing. The girls, stories always consisted of princes and princesses on white ponies in pretty dresses. The boys it was sword fights, battles, and the killing of monsters. If, the all-clear siren sounded (one constant pitch ooooooo) before the story ended, we all felt cheated and wished the air raid could go on just a little bit longer. Never mind, that it meant some poor devils were being bombed out of house and home.

As kids, we would collect the usual things like stamps, cigarette cards, conkers, and marbles. Also wartime collectables like shrapnel. These were pieces of exploded British shells, fired at enemy planes, during an air raid, from the anti aircraft gun sites set up on any piece of waste ground. The nearest site to us was at the top of lodge hill.

Our home defences consisted of three main groups. The first was the balloon troop; their job was to raise hundreds of huge silver gas filled balloons strategically positioned in and around London, on thick cables. This would ensure that the enemy aircraft would fly at a high altitude, making it easier for the next group, the searchlight battery. Their job was, by using large powerful arc lamps, about two meters across, would sweep the night sky trying to illuminate any enemy aircraft in its powerful beam.

I remember at night, looking out of my bedroom window at the dozens of searchlight beams crisscrossing over each other in the black night sky, backwards and forwards they went as if they were dancing together. It was a beautiful sight, if anything about war ever could be beautiful. Suddenly one searchlight found an enemy aircraft and stopped its dance; it remained still, and motionless on its target, just like the pointer hunting dog when he spots his prey. This was a signal to all the others to stop their search; they would all concentrate on this one craft. Five or six searchlight beams lit up the lone enemy aircraft. The pilot would duck and dive trying to avoid the powerful lights like a moth caught a flame. Then the third group, The anti-aircraft gun battery; would spring into life, trying to shoot down the enemy aircraft with their rapid-fire pom-pom cannon, so called for the noise it made, pom, pom, pom, pom, with every rapid round it fired. It was these shells exploding high in the night sky and the fragments of shell casing falling back to earth, that you could hear hitting the roof tiles as they rained down, with a ting!!! Ping!!! Sound.

I couldn鈥檛 wait until the next morning to retrieve the jagged fragments of metal from my back garden to add to my collection. Other collectables were, the thin strips of metal foil dropped by enemy planes to try and confuse the British radar.

My dad was an A.R.P. Warden (Air Raid Precautions) he was dressed in a dark blue tunic and trousers, with a black tin hat and a white (W) for warden on the front. Part of his duty was to patrol the pitch-black streets at night, making sure no one had a light showing through their blackout curtains. Just like Mr Hodges in dad鈥檚 army. If he saw any chink of light, he鈥檇 shout, 鈥淧ut that ruddy light out鈥�. Persistent offenders were heavily fined as they endangered everyone else鈥檚 life. There were no streetlights; everywhere was in total darkness you couldn鈥檛 see a hand in front of your face.

My dad was in the First World War, he served in the Royal Field Artillery, and was to old to serve as a soldier in the current one, but that didn鈥檛 stop him from doing his bit. During the day he worked at the Matchless and A.J.S. motorcycle factory at Plumstead. Some nights, when at work he had to fore fill a task called fire-watching duty. This meant he had to go on the roof of the factory during a raid, and watch for incendiary fires. The factory was situated opposite the Woolwich arsenal, a huge armament factory that stretched for three or four miles down the banks of the river Thames from Abbey wood to Charlton and if, that had gone up, so would half of Woolwich.

I was lucky dad would collect incendiary bomb cases for me, discovered on his A.R.P. warden patrols. These were the tail fin part of the bomb, a circular tube about eight inches long and two and a half inches across. They were dropped by the hundred from German bombers, and were filled with an acidic phosphorous powder that on impact would flair up and burn its way through the roof of a house or factory. Setting fire to the loft then into the next room underneath, and if not discovered would go on setting fires through every floor it burnt through. We were told never to pick up anything that looked like a thermos flasks or tin cans from wasteland, back gardens, or fields, as they could be anti personal land mines fitted with delayed, or anti tamper fuses. Several children had been killed in this way, and our teachers impressed upon us the importance of this instruction. So my safe incendiary bombs, supplied by my dad, were very highly sort after commodity and could be used for swaps for other trophies.

I remember, that there were lots of horse-drawn carts on the road in the war years, due mainly to the shortage of petrol, and such a vehicle delivered our milk. It was fascinating to watch the milkman, and his horse work as a team. The milkman would collect a crateful of milk from the back of the cart, then go from door to door delivering them leaving the horse standing perfectly still. With his head nearly touching the ground. You could be fooled into thinking the horse was asleep. The only perceived movement was the swish of his tail as he tried to brush the away the flies in the hot summer sun. Then his body would twitch and shudder with the irritation. I think he knew he was fighting a loosing battle perhaps that鈥檚 why he looked so sad.

After the milkman had delivered the last of the bottles in the crate, he would stand at the front gate, and without a word being said the horse would suddenly raise his head, as if by a sound not audible by humans. He became alert, his ears would point forward, he鈥檇 look at the milkman, it was his turn now, and with a spring in his step, would trot the fifty yards to his master then stop, and the routine would beguine all over again. You may wonder why I watched these events very closely, and can relate them in every detail; it was my way of earning extra pocket money.

If the horse decided it was time to go to the toilet, he would just do it, leaving a pile of his droppings in the road, not a very good pastime I must admit, watching a horse鈥檚 backside. But now it was my turn to go into action those droppings would not stay in the road for long, it was a very highly sort after commodity. I鈥檇 run as fast as I could to dads shed, pick up a galvanised bucket and shovel, and get back to that pile of warm steaming gold in the road. Dad would give me sixpence for a bucketful. He鈥檇 say 鈥済ood boy you beat all the neighbours to it鈥� which put a big grin on my face. Everybody in those days grew vegetables in their back gardens and horse droppings were a wonderful fertiliser. How many of today鈥檚 kids would go so far to earn their pocket money, not many I bet.

At home I had a toy that I had resurrected from a bombsite, it was a pedal car. I know it only had three wheels, but if you leaned to one side, and keep the corner with the missing wheel, off the ground it would drive ok. Much to mums annoyance, I thought the world of my little car; after all, no one I knew had a new one. Pig bins were set up at the top of each road for people to put their kitchen scraps in to feed the pigs on farms. Not that there was a lot, as very little was wasted during the war.

Another was the compulsory collection by the borough of all scrap metal, such as iron railings, metal gates, and chains. The railings from the local park and houses were all cut down, taken away and melted down to help make planes and armaments for the war effort. One-day mum said to me 鈥渨hy don鈥檛 you let the dustmen take that old pedal car of yours to make a Spitfire?鈥� I hesitated for a second then said 鈥淥k鈥�. Mum thought, blimey that was easy; she didn鈥檛 think I鈥檇 give in quite so readily.

Three weeks later when the dustmen were coming down the road I said to mum; 鈥渨hen are those dustmen gonna bring my spitfire.鈥� You can imagine, the disappointment I felt, I鈥檇 been tricked into parting with my favourite toy. I believed they were going to give me a Spitfire of my very own. To me, it seemed a fair swap. So a few days later I came home with an even more, rusty and battered old pedal car from another bombsite. Mum knew this time; I was not going to give this one up without a fight, so she didn鈥檛 bother trying.
One day I was playing in my garden, when my attention was drawn to the sound of two planes diving and climbing in the summer sky. It was a dogfight between a British Spitfire and a German Meshershmitt. I stood mesmerised, as they dived, swooped, and rolled, trying to get each other in their sights. Tat-a-tat, tat-a-tat, went the sound of their guns as they tried to shoot each other from the cloudless blue sky. Eventually, after several minuets had passed, the Spitfire struck the decisive blow; the Meshersmitt spiralled down to earth with a plume of smoke trailing from its tail. A big cheer went up, which made me jump. Unbeknown to me all the neighbours had all gathered to watch the same battle. Then, from a little black dot in the sky, a parachute billowed open, the German had bailed out, and was floating down to earth, and capture, his war was over.

So who had really won? The German who would sit out the rest of the war and eventually go home, or the R.A.F. pilot who went off to face another battle and possible death. The R.A.F. pilot pulled away doing the victory barrel roll, Spitfire pilots were famous for this manoeuvre, a corkscrew three hundred and sixty degree roll. Another big cheer went up, this time with me adding my voice to the congratulations.

Later on in the war we were treated to V1 rockets, they were called, doodlebugs, they were pilot-less planes, filled with explosives. These early missiles were launched from the French coast toward London. They had a torpedo shaped body, short square wings, and a rocket attached to the tail. A little propeller on the front, turning in the wind operated a timer. After a certain amount of revolutions, the engine would cut out. If timed correctly, they would be over the city of London or the docks. But this was a very hit and miss idea as you can imagine. Some would fall short, and end up in the countryside and some would overshoot their target completely. After a short while of observing these, we came to understand how they worked. If the rocket engine stopped, it would mostly glide down at forty-five degrees getting lower and lower until it crashed and exploded. But very occasionally, if the rocket had reached its stall speed it would plummet straight down. But if it was not heading in your direction, or had passed you by, you were perfectly safe, and could watch it go on its merry way.

It was said, that some crazy Polish Spitfire pilots would see them coming across the channel, and instead of wasting valuable ammunition shooting it down, they鈥檇 fly alongside the V1鈥檚 and with their Spitfire wingtips under the doodlebugs wings, would then flip them over, turning them back to where they came from. I don鈥檛 know if that story was true, but it had a great affect on moral during wartime. One day I was in the garden, watching a doodlebug coming towards me. I remember plainly the deep Wow! Wow! Wow! Sound of the incessant drone of its rocket engine. Suddenly it stopped, next thing I remember was being swept of my feet by my mum and bundled into the cupboard under the stairs. Before I had time to gather my thoughts, there was an almighty Bang!!! Just a few seconds later, the house shook, and windows rattled, the thing had exploded less than half a mile away. That was a near miss.

On another occasion, at night the warning siren sounded. Dad quickly donned his tunic, crossed over the road to number 49 to collect fellow warden Len. He was standing in the porch with the front door open, calling to Len, when bang!!! A bomb exploded eight houses up the road. The blast blew dad off his feet. He found himself halfway up Lens stairs outside the bathroom door. He could hear nothing but a constant ringing in his ears and was deaf for the next two days.

On examination of the site the next day the true facts of a lucky escape was realised. A piece of debris from the bombed house had passed through a cast-iron sewerage breather pipe, (we as kids, called the ponk pole) then passed through the wall of the porch that dad was standing in, out the other side then through the wall of the front room and finished up in the front room fireplace. The blast from the bomb had got to dad first and moved him out of the way. If the front door had not been open, when dad was calling Len, he would have still have been in the porch, minus his legs.

We all had shelters of some sort. There were two kinds called, Morrison and Anderson. Named after the innovator of the idea. Morrison was the indoor one; it was like a heavy reinforced dining room table made of thick gauge metal reminiscent of a cage, with its thick wire bars. The other was the Anderson, like ours, was an outdoor one. Made of corrugated iron sheets. You had to dig a four-foot deep hole in the garden bolt the curved sheets together, place it in the hole, so it was more than half buried. Bolt on the end sheets, and with the soil, and grass turfs from the hole used to cover over the roof, so the whole thing was buried; it was like a mini underground Nissan hut. We all lent a hand in its construction, and dad equipped it with two double bunk beds. Where he got them from I don鈥檛 know, because dad was not very good at D.I.Y. so he must have scrounged them from somewhere.

Mum proceeded to make it homely. She put in a bedside table, candles, bedding, cutlery, crockery, mats, a Valour oil heater and a clock. Why the clock I could never understand. You only entered the dugout, (as it was called) when the warning siren sounded, and came out again, when you heard the all clear. So why you needed to time it was beyond me. One day after we had had a lot of overnight rain. Dad discovered that the dugout had become flooded with two foot of water and unusable, so that was the end of that, it never got used again. I missed it though, during the day it became a castle, a gun turret, a cockpit of a Wellington bomber, and an Indian wigwam, in the many games we would play using only our imagination.

As we had become a little blas茅 about the air raids it didn鈥檛 bother us too much. Probably, the fact that triggered our new way of thinking was because of the new bombs, the V2s. They could not be heard coming, so therefore no warning sirens were sounded. These looked more like the rockets, as we know them today. It flew so high, and so fast. They said, 鈥渢he first you knew of it, was when it exploded, unless it landed on you, then you never heard it at all鈥�. (That was typical of the cense of humour of those days.)

Part of a warden鈥檚 duty, was to collate information of the injured and dead, and report it to the authorities. One sad story I remember my dad telling my mum. One dark night, two young sisters were coming home from a night at the pictures. They stood chatting to a neighbour, outside their house in Swanley Road, when the air raid sirens sounded. Their dad came to the front door and told his two girls to get into the dugout shelter in the back garden as fast as they could. Sadly, during the intense raid that followed the shelter suffered a direct hit by a large bomb. All the family were killed instantly. Very little of them was left to bury. The mother鈥檚 torso was found on a roof of a house, in the adjacent road the next day. The entire family were destroyed overnight.

Another incident happened to my dad. The sirens had sounded; dad donned his uniform and was running to his warden鈥檚 post in Berwick Road, in the grounds of Elsa road school, when an Alsatian dog jumped over a fence and savagely attacked him. Dad was carrying his tin helmet by the chinstrap at the time, so his reaction was to swing it at the dog to fend it off. The animal gave a yelp and stopped his pursuit. It was so dark; with no streetlights he could not see where the dog had gone, he just kept running to report to his wardens post Several hours later, when the air raid was over, and dawn was breaking, he was walking back home when he came across the Alsatian dog lying in the road, it was dead. The blow from his tin hat had sadly broken the dog鈥檚 neck.

At this time in the war, the allied troops were making vast gains through France, Belgium, and Holland, so the advancing army鈥檚 soon overran the launching sites required for these new rockets, so they never lasted long.

Then came the end of the war in Europe. Germany had surrendered, and evil Hitler was dead. Every body was over the moon people were cheering and dancing in the street. The mums and dads planed a street party. All the neighbours gave something from their meagre rations, whether they had children or not. Food was in very short supply; people鈥檚 attitudes were different then. If you had an excess of runner beans grown in your garden, you鈥檇 share the surplus with all the neighbours. They would do the same with carrots, lettuces, cabbages, and fruit. We had fruit trees in our garden and chickens. So we were able to pass on fruit, and eggs.

Party day came, the road was closed and we had a fancy dress competition. My friends Terry and Pauline came first, in the fancy dress, as a bride and groom. Terry was dressed in a black home made morning suit and bowler hat. Pauline was dressed in a bride鈥檚 gown, made from net curtains. I came second, with a black suit made by my mum and dad, from the old blackout curtains. A black skullcap and a black pair of wings on my back. Sewn to the seat of my pants was a plume of cotton wool dyed red. I was a doodlebug. Audrey came third as a crinoline lady, with a hoop skirt, made by her mum and dad.

More events were to follow, we had egg and spoon, skipping, three legged, and sack races. Then we all sat down, at a long line of tables set out in the road. Brightly coloured bunting stretched back and forth across the road, and flags flew from all the lampposts, a mass of reds whites and blue rosettes, fluttered in the warm summer breeze as if by magic brought the road to life. The pleasure was reflected in the faces of all the people. The noise of everybody all taking, laughing at once and squealing with pleasure went on and on. Happiness had not been seen like that for a very long time. A far different cry to the drab wartime streets, covered in bombsite brick dust, the smell stayed in your nostrils and the dank lingering smell of gas from totally demolished houses. People with there heads bent low, scurrying to and from work, not knowing if their house would be still be left standing when they got back. The smell had gone now, and we were left with the sweet aroma of summer flowers and fresh cut grass. Even the birds seemed to recognise the joy of the moment, getting nearer than normal for their share of the feast. Most of us young ones were a little overcome, to much to take in, at one go, for a while, we just sat and stared.

We had sandwiches, cakes, jelly, and trifle. This may not sound much by today鈥檚 standards, but in those days it was as if wonderland had arrived in Balliol Road, so much food, like coming across Hansel and Gretal鈥檚 gingerbread house in the forest in the fairy story. It was amazing what could be made, by using a little ingenuity; the mums and dads, have done us proud. Everybody who lived in the road was there I can鈥檛 think of anyone who did not attend, and we knew everybody by name from the top of the road to the bottom. Unlike like today, your lucky if you know the name of your next-door neighbours. The memory of that day, as you can probably tell, has stayed with me throughout my life.

Sweets were on ration and virtually non-existent. The only things you could buy in the shops were liquorice wood. This literally was a piece of stringy wood, or root that when chewed tasted of liquorice, and tasteless tiger nuts that tasted like wood. So left to our own devices yet again, we would mix three or four spoons full of coco powder to one of sugar into a cone of paper. This made a half passable chocolate dip using a wet finger as the dip. Entertainment was limited. After the war, apart from Saturday morning pictures, open only for children, you had to make your own fun and the tools, with which to do it. The open field at Wickham Street was once a borough council rubbish tip. So we kids, always on the lookout to recycle some discarded treasure went on the scrounge. Wheels and axels from old prams were highly sort after. With a long plank of wood for the seat and the large pair of wheels attached to the back with a few staples, and the small wheels attached to the front, with a swivel secured by a nut and bolt, and steered with a loop of rope, we had a soapbox go-cart. We would take them over to Danson Park; race them down the hill and over the bridge that crossed a little stream. Many times, if two soapboxes tried to cross the bridge at the same time, neither having any brakes, one, or both would finish up in the stream. Many kids, myself included, sat on the slopes of that hill on a hot sunny day, drying out before going home. Our mums never knew half the things we kids got up to.

I remember one sunny Saturday, Terry and myself were going to Saturday morning pictures, when we bumped into Brian, my next-door neighbour. He said he would like to go as well. Now Brian鈥檚 mum was one of those mums, who would never let their little offspring out of their sight. Maybe she didn鈥檛 realise the war was over, and there wasn鈥檛 going to be any more air raids, or maybe we didn鈥檛 realise that Brian was a year younger than us. So Terry and me decided to try to talk Brain鈥檚 mum into letting him come with us. Much to our surprise after wanting to know all the ins and outs of our outing, with questioning reminiscent of the Spanish inquisition, she agreed. So off up the road we all went, Brian clutching his sixpence, entry fee to the pictures, tightly in his hand. It was such a nice day, the sun was shining and not a cloud to be seen. Long before we ever reached the cinema Terry suggested, instead of going to the pictures, why don鈥檛 we all go up the park?

Brian said, 鈥渢hat鈥檚 a good idea, I鈥檝e never been allowed to go up the park before.鈥�

Terry and me looked at each, other lost for words. Brian鈥檚 never been allowed to go anywhere before, let alone up the park. It was a good idea for a hot sunny day, so off we all went. We ran through the woods, swung from the branches of the trees, played sword fights with sticks from the bushes, and ran down the grassy slopes going so fast our legs could hardly keep up, pretending to be spitfire pilots, shooting down the enemy, and dropping bombs, with all the appropriate sound affects. We, (especially Brian) were thoroughly enjoying ourselves.

Then we headed for the lake, when we arrived we played a game called skimming stones, bouncing stones off surface of the water as we went around the lake. We soon reached the boathouse, on the far side of the lake. Terry saw a school friend, sailing his toy yacht. It was stuck about ten foot out from the shore, in a becalmed stretch of water. The boy had a six-foot cane, but could not reach it. 鈥淚鈥檒l get it,鈥� said Terry, he leaned out as far as he could with the cane, but was three inches short of reaching it, so he wiggled a little closer to the edge, and tried again. This time just half an inch short, he leaned forward a little further, then splash!!! Into the lake went Terry, up to his neck in water.

All the commotion and shouting brought the boatman out of his shed; he soon had Terry out of the lake and took him into the boathouse, redressed Terry in an old boiler suit, and gave him back to us with a bag full of Terry鈥檚 wet clothes, and said 鈥淭ake him straight home.鈥� Off we all trouped, Terry feeling sorry for himself, and shoes full of water. Brian kept saying Oh! V! Oh! I was trying my best not to laugh. We eventually reached our road, and we were within a few yards of Brian鈥檚 house and I said 鈥渓et me and Terry get past your house, before you knock on the door. We don鈥檛 want your mum to know we didn鈥檛 go to the pictures.鈥� I鈥檇 no sooner got the words out of my mouth, when Brian鈥檚 mum opened her front door, she walked down the path to the front gate, and stood staring at Terry with her mouth and eyes wide open, Terry and I slinked passed, not daring look back. His shoes, still full of water were making squelching sounds, with every step he took.

Time seemed to stand still it took forever to get passed. I held my breath hoping she would not call us back, to account for ourselves. After all, we had earlier agreed to look after her son. As Brian turned into his gateway, I heard his mother say. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 happened to Terry?鈥� Brian replied, 鈥淗e鈥檚 stepped in a puddle.鈥� I kept on walking and bit my knuckles, to stop myself from laughing out loud. Bloody big puddle I thought, Danson Park Lake.

I turned into my gateway knock on the door. Mum let me in and then, chuckling and giggling I eventually related the story to her, pausing only to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes. I knew she鈥檇 not tell me off, she was laughing as much as I was. I had a good old mum; I was never scared to tell her anything. She always saw the funny side of my exploits. She made sure the other mums involved got to hear the true story, and calm the situation down. It must have worked as Brian was allowed to go out with us again on many occasions.

The road outside was a giant playground. Cars were very rarely seen. Only three people in the road had motor vehicles Mr Goff, he was a works manager for a local firm. And Mr Blythe he was a tallyman, (someone who sells credit at the door) and Mr Sothern, he worked for a coal company and had an auto cycle, this was a pedal assisted motorcycle. Brian and I used to watch for him coming home every night. We would sit on the pavement, outside Brian鈥檚 house and eagerly wait for him to come down the road. The first to see him would nudge the other. We would go tense and wring our hands with excitement; we knew exactly what was going to happen. He would come flying down the road on his auto cycle, put on his brakes and go sailing past his house. So he鈥檇 carry on to the bottom of the road, before turning round for a second attempt. That was no better than the first; he鈥檇 pass by again. So he鈥檇 carry on up the road turn around and go for a third try. By this time Brian and me were nearly wetting ourselves with laughter.

For the third time he pass by. This time or the next, depending on whether he was going to admit defeat or not, he would get off his bike and wheel it home through his front gate. The strange thing was, we never ever saw him make the turn. No matter how many times he鈥檇 try. He always ended up pushing the bike the last twenty yards home, so why did he not do this the first time.

Toys, as I have said were virtually non-existent, due to all the metal going toward the war effort. So we had to make our own. Wood and other raw materials could be found easily from bombsites, or council tips. Stilts were popular; they were two long pieces of wood with footrests screwed three or four foot from the ground. Easy to make, but a lot more difficult to use, you鈥檇 start with the footrests one foot from the floor and progress to the higher levels as you mastered the art. Another toy was the sword. Two kids would put their pocket money together and buy a broom handle. Then they would cut it in half. Each would whittle one end down to a blunt point. Four inches from the top, nail on a tee bar and with a lid from a dried milk tin make a guard.

Paper aeroplanes could be made to fly very well with an A4 sheet of paper, not the flying darts they make today. These could, with a few adjustments, be made to perform stunts. Bows and arrows made from garden canes worked very well. One thick one for the bow, and some thinner ones for the arrows. Kites were not allowed during the war, as these could be used to signal, and direct the enemy aircraft to prime targets.

Another game played in the street was riding the dustcart. When the dustmen came into the road, they had a small yellow pickup size van with sliding shutters, on the back, like the compartments of the fryers in a fish and chip shop. For the larger rubbish they had a trailer towing behind and on the back of the trailer was a running board. We kids would wait for the dustcart start to move off, and then we would all jump on the back and get a ride. Brian was always slow, when it came to this stunt. By the time Brian got on, the dustcart was slowing down again and we were all jumping off before the dustmen saw us. The only time Brian beat the rest of us jumping on the cart, was when it reached the bottom of the road None of us jumped on, accept Brian because it was leaving our road and going round the corner.

The cart pulled away with wide-eyed Brian hanging on all alone, he jumped off backwards as it picked up speed, over and over he tumbled in the road, but he hadn鈥檛 hurt himself. He just dusted himself off grinned, and carried on. You couldn鈥檛 help liking Brian he often had us in fits, I鈥檓 still not sure today whether he did things deliberately just to make us laugh.
Another harmless activity we did was on one of the cleared bombsites; we would all built a clubhouse made from recycled timber, and old lino to make a waterproof roof. The only money we spent was for a few nails and candles. Boys and girls of all ages lent a hand. We had a collection of musical instruments like xylophones, ocarinas, mouth organs, biscuit tin drums, and maracas made from co-co tins part filled with rice. We would all sit around and play the instruments as best we could. It must have sounded like a bit of a din but we all enjoyed it, and all lit by a dim candlelight.

One day, we went to the clubhouse and discovered somebody had stolen our front door. One of the kids could see our door on a chicken run, in the back garden of a neighbour鈥檚 house. This man was a deacon of the local church. Amos was his name. Nobody liked him, we never gave him the courtesy of calling him Mr, it was always Amos. He had an evil way about him he certainly didn鈥檛 like children. So one of the kid鈥檚 dads knocked on his door and informed Amos that the door on his chicken run, had been stolen, and belonged to us kids. Amos replied, 鈥淭he door belongs to no one, and in any case it was wrong, for boys and girls to mix together unattended. No one knows what they get up to in that hut.鈥� This dad did no more; he climbed over the fence into Amos鈥檚 back garden, via the use of a friend鈥檚 house and pulled the door off his chicken run. He returned our door to us, helping to screw it back, in its place.

One of the kids said, 鈥淲hat did Amos say?鈥� 鈥淒on鈥檛 know鈥� said the dad 鈥渢he last I saw of him, he was chasing his bloody chickens all around the garden.鈥�

That was my first encounter with the religious, Amos. The second was on a dull and rainy day. I was on my own, at the top of the road outside the church, (his church). In my hand I had a peashooter, in my pocket a supply of pearl barley, I was firing some, at the grill covering a window, just to hear the tinkle tinkle sound that the pearl barley made when it trickled down the metal grill. Now!! Just to clear things up, in no way, could I have caused any damage, and as for any mess, the birds would have been pleased with all the pearl barley. I didn鈥檛 see Amos crossing the road with his newspaper tucked under his arm, that he had just purchased from the Cabin sweet shop.

But he saw me, he grabbed me by the shoulder spun me round and violently snatched the peashooter from my mouth and threw it into the road. He hurt me doing this, and I saw red, so instinctively I snatched his paper from under his arm, and threw that into the road, after all, if my memory serves me correctly, isn鈥檛 it the bible that it says an eye for an eye. The newspaper acted like blotting paper soaking up the rain like a sponge. I quickly picked up my peashooter and didn鈥檛 hang around. I ran off down the road as fast as my little legs would carry me, and didn鈥檛 stop until I reached my house. That evening I was listening to the radio. (Television will not become affordable by the masses for another ten years yet.)

When there was a knock knock at the door, mum answered it, returned, and said to dad, 鈥渋ts Mr Amos, for you.鈥� I went cold remembering the saga of the wet newspaper earlier that day. I鈥檓 in for a bloody good hiding now, I thought. I listened nervously, from behind the living room door to the conversation between Amos and my dad. I heard Amos tell his story about how he had caught me firing my peashooter at consecrated ground and how I had offended god, and showed no respect to his house of praise. Now!! my dad and religion were worlds apart. Not that he was a bad man. On the contrary he would not see an injustice done to anyone without having his say, he was a fair man.

He let Amos prattle on doing the bible-punching bit, and when he鈥檇 finished, dad took a deep breath and said. 鈥淵ou want your bloody brains tested man. Sod off you silly old fool.鈥� By this time I was feeling sure everything was going to be O.K. Even silently encouraging dad to give it to him, and feeling quite smug, though still hiding behind the dining room door. When dad returned, he was ranting on to mum, about what a fool Amos was, and if that鈥檚 what religious people were like, then you could keep your churches. That鈥檚 why, what happened next came as a big surprise to me. Dad gave me a walloping and a telling off, like you鈥檇 never believe, just when I thought I鈥檇 got away with it. But it was nice to know that my opinion and my dads were the same as far as Amos goes, so the wallop didn鈥檛 really hurt. The worst thing about a hiding is not the physical hurt but the thought you had done wrong in your parents eyes.

During the war my mum said, 鈥淥ur family would stay together.鈥� Not like some parents who sent their young children away to the countryside like Devon and Cornwall, on the government鈥檚 evacuation plan. These young boys and girls left London by the hundreds on trains and coaches, griping a little suitcase in their hand, and a label tied to the collar of their coats looking lost and afraid at the thought of leaving mum and dad to stay with strangers on farms and in villages, just so they would be safe and sound.

Well, I say 鈥渟afe and sound鈥� some had very sad tales to tell afterwards. The treatment they received from some of these strangers was no better than barbaric. If they got their chores wrong they鈥檇 be caned, or sent to bed early without any food. Some were treated very well, with a better lifestyle than they had ever had at home. These became lifelong friends after the war, revisiting them on holidays, and reliving fond memories. A few of them never saw their parents again, as their mum and dad were killed at work or home during an air raid, they were never to see home again. Life during the war had its good and bad times; more than fifty-five thousand people were killed in the U.K. by the German bombing raids. Nothing serious happened to my family. Even my older brother Arthur, serving with the Kings Royal Rifles in Italy, came home safe and sound. We were one of the lucky ones, as I look back over sixty years to my childhood and record it in these recollections of a bygone age, and hope that the young will never have to re-live those times ever again.

By Gordon Payne

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