大象传媒

I was eight years old when World War II began. With my family gathered around the wireless, we listened solemnly to the announcement by Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain that we were at war with Germany.

My sister Pat and I played happily in the garden with our friends whilst our parents wondered exactly what would happen to us. Would the Germans come to England? When Winston Churchill made his famous radio address in June 1940 -"We shall go on to the end", etc., our parents, along with many others, were inspired by his words.

We had a brick-built, surface air-raid shelter, and as we lived near to Croydon, Kenley and Biggin Hill aerodromes, we spent many hours in the shelter when air raids were in progress. Despite the fear, caused in part by the noise of anti-aircraft guns, we tried to be good so as to lessen the worry to our parents.
Sonia, our other sister, was six weeks old and slept through much of the disturbance of being constantly shuttled between house and shelter.

Next door lived a dear lady, known to us as "Aunty", who was welcomed into our shelter. She found the noise of the bombing and gunfIre extremely upsetting, sitting mostly with her head held in her hands. For me, at eight years old, learning that Aunty had decided she did not want to live any more was one of the worst moments of the war.
In July 1940 we heard that Hitler planned the invasion by Germany of our country and our minds filled with thoughts of life under enemy occupation. Our parents told us of the courage of the Battle of Britain airmen.

It was not unusual for families to emerge from their shelters to discover their windows broken and shrapnel from shells and bullets in gardens and roads.

My parents would take us to visit friends and relatives to see how they had fared in the raids, swapping stories over a cup of tea.
In June 1944 the fIrst V1 "Doodlebug" landed in South London, not too far from our home. These rockets, fired from land sites, sounded like a motorbike speeding through the sky above us. Suddenly the noise would stop and that was when you wondered "if your name was on it!"
At school the pupils spent long periods in the air-raid shelters and our teachers took great care of us, trying to behave as normally as they could. Concentration was difficult but lunch was served as usual and a hot meal of bangers and mash does wonders for the morale. I remember shortbread and orange jelly/jam for dessert - sent to us, I believe, by kindly Americans.

During this sometimes terrifying period, the Government offered parents the choice of evacuation for their children. It was decided that my friend Sheila and I would go. An air raid was in progress as we assembled at our School. I recall being given a pink nightie by a lady from the Red Cross.
With labels on our coats and each carrying our gas masks, we left by train, accompanied by teachers. Leaving our parents was hard and we were crying.

Our first stop was at a Convent School in Somerset. Lunch had been prepared for us but mostly we were not feeling hungry. I think that we were already homesick. Here we were examined for head lice and waited to be "claimed" by strangers. I recall that when my friend and I were taken away a few boys were still unclaimed. I wonder what happened to them?

The couple who gave us a home had no children of their own but provided us with every comfort. Hardly had we set foot in the door when we were taken to the other end of the town to be shown to their relations, who we discovered were "fostering" one of our friends.

Our education, though limited, continued in army Nissen Huts because the school did not have room for us. American soldiers, billeted in the town, gave us chewing-gum and sweets which, of course, were a rare treat. On some evenings we were taken to a Social Club with our hosts. Here we played skittles and drank pop.

There was great excitement when our Mothers visited. My Mother stayed in a country cottage which belonged to two school mistresses who were delightful and owned a very large dog called Trollope. They preferred reading to cleaning and I remember my Mother buying special powder from Timothy Whites and endeavouring to Hoover the fleas from the bedding.

We were coming near to the end of the war and so separation from our families was soon ended.

I am writing this on Remembrance Sunday, having watched another thanksgiving ceremony from Whitehall. Perhaps I was lucky to be only eight years old when World War II began.

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