大象传媒

A Boy Growing up in Wartime by Langton

I was born in February 1939 in the North London suburb of Whetstone so I have few memories of the early years of WW2. However, from about the age of two and a half into my sixth year, the experience of total world conflict was my normality and I did not understand why adults should expect things to be any different. As an example of this, I was six years old before I found out what street lights were for. When they were at last switched on I felt some concern at having such illumination out of doors 鈥� the result of five years of 鈥減ut that light out鈥�.

My circumstance was, I suppose, that of an average middle class familyliving in a four bedroom detached house in an avenue of similar residences. My father (aged 48 at the outbreak of war)not being in military service was at home with my mother and acted as an air-raid warden both at home and firewatching at his place of work in Islington, North London. I had two older sisters although, during the war years, they were away part of the time at boarding school in Yorkshire and the Lake District. In today鈥檚 world it sounds extremely 鈥減osh鈥� but we also had a live in domestic servant which, in those days was unremarkable in even modest households. Her name was Florrie and her work as housemaid, nanny and cook meant that my mother was free to do voluntary war work, of which more later.

I suppose that the most obvious feature of the war years was the ever present bombing in its various forms or 鈥渢he Blitz鈥� as it was known. At the start of the war my father, who was a man who never did things by halves, had an air-raid shelter built in the back garden. It was a deluxe version of the standard Anderson model but in reinforced concrete instead of corrugated steel and of much larger dimensions. Like the Anderson it was half buried, covered with an earth mound which was landscaped as a rockery and the entrance opposite the house had a blast wall and steel door. It was, I suppose, able to stand anything other than a direct hit. Should the worst happen and the house were to be demolished and fall on the entrance, there was an emergency exit tunnel at the far end filled with sandbags so that it was possible to dig yourself out. Fully equipped with bunk beds, provisions, water, lantern, candles and even a rather smelly chemical toilet it was a secure place of refuge.

As this air-raid shelter was so well equipped, during the first years of the blitz when night time bombing was a regular occurrence, we went to bed in the shelter rather than waiting for the sirens to sound the alarm. Later, when raids were less frequent we stayed in the house at night, only taking shelter on the rising and falling note of the warning (a sound which still gives me a frisson of fear) until we heard the steady note of the 鈥渁ll clear鈥�. There was one thing about the shelter which did, quite literally, make an impression on me. Whoever had finished the ceiling had pulled the float away from the surface creating a number of spikes like small stalactites. As the youngest member of the family I was in the top bunk and, if I sat up too far, my head came into contact with these projections 鈥� a painful memory!

Our road escaped the blitz comparatively lightly, only one house a few doors along from us was totally demolished by a land mine one night 鈥� I can still remember the tremendous, chest punching explosion even in the air-raid shelter. I don鈥檛 know if anyone died in this incident, small children were not told things like that. What I do know is that the bombsite became a playground for young boys, particularly when an emergency water supply tank for fire-fighting was built using bricks salvaged from the wreckage and lined with asphalt, this had the big white letters letters 鈥淓WS鈥� and a diagonal cross to enable it to be found in the blackout. Another fire precaution which many houses had, including ours, was a diamond shaped white enamelled metal plate with the letter 鈥淧鈥� in blue affixed to the gatepost. This meant that the house had a stirrup pump which was a hand operated device to be placed over the edge of a bucket of water for fire-fighting. Accompanying this were buckets of sand for putting out incendiary bombs on which you could not use water. Fortunately, neither of these was ever needed which is just as well as I am sure that no-one ever put out a significant fire with the pathetic dribble of water that the stirrup pump delivered.

Another diversion after a night of bombing was to go out into the garden in the morning with a bucket and pick up shell splinters, some still warm! These jagged pieces of steel were the result of the overnight activities of the nearby battery of anti-aircraft (ack-ack) guns that kept us awake at night. What I had no way of knowing at the time was that this battery was sometimes commanded by the man who was years later to become my father-in-law!

During the height of the blitz it was decided that I should be evacuated but not through the official process that was removing children from London. Instead my 鈥渘anny鈥�, previously mentioned, who came from Cardiff took me to her home. I have to say that living in a 鈥渂ack-to-back鈥� terraced house with an outside toilet at the end of the yard came as more of a shock to me than the total war at home to which I was accustomed. Shortly after this move Hitler switched the focus of his attack to the ports of Britain and Cardiff suffered heavy bombing so it was thought that I would be better off back with the family in London. One memory that I do carry with me from those days was being taken for a trip to Barry Island which in peacetime was a famous seaside resort near Cardiff. There were beautiful sandy beaches where I had my first sight of the sea if one looked past the anti-invasion barbed wire and tank traps. Close by the beach was a funfair (closed for the duration) and I was greatly puzzled by the strange structures of the roller coaster and other rides 鈥� what could they be for?

Horrifying as the bombing was it did give rise to some more amusing moments. My aunt and uncle lived nearby and they had a cook/housekeeper, Mary, who was from rural Norfolk. In the evenings after her day鈥檚 work she liked to listen to the radio which, in the absence of TV, was the main source of information and entertainment (newspapers were minimal due to the rationing of newsprint paper). The news, although factual, was carefully slanted 鈥� in today鈥檚 term 鈥渟pun鈥� 鈥� to maintain national morale. So that people did not feel that they were being specially targeted, reports of the bombing often said that the bombs were dropped at random, probably also implying that the Nazi aircrews were dumping their loads and fleeing in panic. One evening Mary came into aunt and uncle鈥檚 room and said with great concern in her voice, 鈥淭hose poor people at Random 鈥� they鈥檝e been bombed again鈥�. Propoganda does not always have the effect that was intended!

As time passed the intensity of bombing by aircraft began to decrease until it virtually ceased during the latter years of the war. It was, however, replaced by another threat which was, in some ways, even more disturbing, this being the 鈥淰鈥� weapons. The first of these was the V1 flying bomb or 鈥渄oodlebug鈥�. Nasty as this was, at least you had some warning of its approach in the stuttering roar of its primitive ram-jet engine. It was when this noise stopped that the panic started as the load of high explosive was now falling rapidly to earth not, you hoped, near you. My closest encounter with one of these was one lunchtime when I was in the kitchen just sitting down to a plate of scrambled eggs (made with dried eggs which I greatly preferred to the rare and suspicious fresh variety). Suddenly, someone shouted 鈥渄oodlebug!鈥� and we heard the approaching rumble. Immediate evacuation to the air-raid shelter in the garden began but, before we could reach it, the noise stopped followed some seconds later by the most enormous explosion. Although it had fallen some distance away in Southgate, the effect of the blast and the huge cloud of black smoke billowing up into the sky made it seem very close. The danger past, we returned to the kitchen only to find that the blast had brought down some ceiling plaster which had fallen in my scrambled eggs ruining them. I never forgave Hitler for this personal assault on me and my lunch!

Another V1 had fallen on a nearby golf course and I was taken to see the site of this event 鈥� strange what spectators will do! Standing on the rim of the what seemed to me to be the enormous crater in the earth and looking down, I saw amongst the debris at the bottom a louvred panel which I now know to have been a component of the engine. To my mind this looked exactly like a picture that I had seen showing the gill slits of a shark. To this day V1鈥檚 and sharks are linked in my mind.

Far darker memories are associated with the V2 rocket bombs which started late in 1944. The first long range ballistic missiles these arrived faster than the speed of sound so there was no warning of their coming. One of these weapons had a direct impact on my family in March 1945. My grandfather was manager of a shirtmaker in the City of London. He had gone to work one day as normal but, during the morning, had gone over to Smithfield to visit an acquaintance. While he was there by ill fortune a V2 rocket fell, destroying a large part of the market and killing many people. My grandfather was never seen again. Of course, all deaths are equally tragic but somehow the sudden and unheralded catastrophe of the V2 seemed particularly stunning, doubly so as the war in Europe appeared to be near to an end. I still recall the deep gloom that was cast over the family although I did not fully understand what had happened.

Following my grandfather鈥檚 death and the end of the European war my grandmother moved down to a small seaside village on the south coast near Lee-on-Solent where her sister had a cottage. When the summer holidays came along I went to stay with her and so was introduced to the delights of the seaside that I had only briefly experienced years before at Barry Island. Long hot summer days were spent exploring the beach and the countryside around in company with other holiday making children of like age 鈥� in those days children could safely play unsupervised. One of the features on the beach was a large concrete box like structure that was a component of the 鈥淢ulberry鈥� harbour which was used in the D-day invasion. This piece must have broken free when being towed over and was left aground. Probably the highlight of that first seaside holiday (I was to spend many more there until my teens) were the VJ celebrations to mark the end of the war in the far east. Strangely, I do not remember any special festivities for the previous VE day. The event that is burned on my memory, quite literally, was that someone improvised a bonfire by setting light to a large derelict wooden boathouse on the beach. It made a splendid blaze 鈥� the first intentional one that I had seen! For ages afterwards the ashes of this conflagration provided a rich source of nails, very useful to boys building rafts from driftwood to float on the sea. With those flames on an August night in 1945 my war that I had known all my life was over. Now I would have to learn what peacetime was.

Postscript

I mentioned earlier that, as we had a permanent baby sitter, my mother was able to do voluntary war work. She was a member of the Women鈥檚 Voluntary Service (WVS 鈥� later to become the WRVS) and I still remember her in the dark green uniform with grey and red trimming. My mother belonged to a division of the WVS called the Queen鈥檚 Messengers formed under the patronage of the then Queen (the late Queen Mother). Their task was principally to provide emergency catering services wherever they were needed such as for the victims of the bombing or special work forces like that brought into the London docks to build the Mulberry Harbour (see above). Mother described a typical task where she had to go to West London to collect a large, left-hand drive American truck with a canteen trailer, all of a type that she had never seen before, and then drive this through London in the blackout to the East End. All this was done by ordinary housewives with no special training 鈥� it is amazing what can be done when needs must.

In the story about the V1 I described my lunch of scrambled eggs which leads me to reminisce about food during the war. Although there were shortages and sometimes catering must have been very difficult, we never went hungry 鈥� not like the suffering of so many people around the world. There was strict rationing and many things that we take for granted today were in short supply or not available at all. Fruit and vegetables could only be had in season or in preserved form. A large part of our garden was given over to raising vegetables and some fruit 鈥� 鈥淒ig for Victory鈥� was the slogan. Whenever there was a surplus this was preserved and stored. I remember slicing runner beans and storing them in jars with layers of salt. Fruit was cooked and bottled in special glass containers with a rubber seal called 鈥淜ilner jars鈥�.
I was, like so many children, a fussy eater. Green vegetables, tomatoes and onions did not appeal to me at all and I prefered preserved to fresh. Fortunately my favourite food was potatoes which were usually obtainable. Bread was never rationed until after the war had finished and this also I liked in all its variations. They say that what you don鈥檛 know you don鈥檛 miss so things like oranges, pineapples and, of course, bananas were a mystery to me. A greengrocer in Whetstone high street had in his window from before the war a display of plaster bananas and these strange yellow shapes were just another puzzle for me. Also ice cream was stuff of legend, the nearest that we came to it was occasional frozen custard made in the fridge. Sweets were also rationed and so were a special treat. All this was much harder for the rest of the family who remembered the days of plenty before hostilities.

September 2005

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