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"This story was submitted to the People's War site by CSV/´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Nottingham on behalf of Shirley Butler with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions"

It was just a small area in South-East London covering two square miles known as the glider-fields, although as a child of ten at the time, I cannot recall any gliders ever being around.

The year was 1944.
The Second World War was nearing its end, food, petrol, clothing, bread and sweets were still only available if the ration books allowed.

My family lived a few miles from the Woolwich-Arsenal, an important place to demolish if one was on the ‘other side’ during the war.
Air raids were frequent; warning and all clear sounds were familiar to our ears. Regular updates on the state of the war were broadcast on the wireless which played a big part in the lives of people. Tommy Handley, Arthur Askey and Kenneth Horne gave us fun, music and quick fire jokes.

The Glider-Fields changed from an open grassy plain into long strips of brown earth; these were sectioned off to be cultivated and the words — ‘Dig for victory’ rang in the ears of all the local people.
The plot allocated to our family became important to our way of life.

In our home a bottle which did nothing but stand as an ornament suddenly took on a different role.
On Saturday afternoon’s bread and jam sandwiches were prepared. The plot bottle, as it was now known, was lifted down from the shelf in the pantry and filled with ice cold tap water in readiness for the afternoon to the allotment. No words were needed, our eyes sparkled in anticipation for yet another family outing.

The bottle meant so much to us.
I was oblong and made of frosted glass, twelve inches high, five inches wide with a very impressive stopper.
Just to touch the gleaming container gave a special kind of magical pleasure.

I was still too young to understand the full meaning of war so when the garden fork, spade and dibber were taken out of the shed, we carried them over our shoulders, sometimes singing the seven dwarfs song “hey ho! Hey! Ho! And off to work we go!

The Glider-Fields could tell many stories on my behalf.

One is about the sad day I had to push the pram with our very ill dog Blackie to the vets; our pet had the dreaded canine disease distemper. Incurable in those days.

It broke my heart crossing the glider-field and having to be the one to take our dog on its last journey.
Walking though the glider-fields crying, I recall workmen teasing me about the strange baby I was pushing in the pram. If only they had known.
On my return, now with an empty pram they said nothing, they just smiled sadly in an understanding way.
I was still crying.

Where we lived in south east London the gardens backed onto each other with a line of fences blocking actual bodily contact, we children still played together and chatted over the fence.
The main features in the gardens were not sunrooms, decking or water features but the very important life saving air raid shelters.

One particular sunny, warm day with a bright blue sky, children’s voices were raised in delight playing games.
This day like many others was interrupted by the shrill sound of the air raid warning.
A sound I cannot describe on paper but one I had first been made aware of from parents, school teachers and the radio programmes, and now knew very well. Without having to be told, we children disappeared from the gardens down into the shelters.

Ours had been set up like a bedroom come playroom, pillows, blankets, books, cuddly-toys, comics, torches and lemonade. All these things helped comfort both young and older folk when an air raid was on.

My brother and I crept into the shelter trying not to disturb our dad who was ‘minding’ us for the afternoon at the same time having a snooze on a sunny summer’s day.
The drone of a V1 became louder.
It was heading towards London.
The signs to listen for were when the droning stopped.
Suddenly, no noise at all.
It had cut out just miles from its target which we guessed was the Woolwich-Arsenal; would it drift those extra miles?

To transport the digging equipment was a privilege as far as we were concerned, we siblings all fought for our turn to carry them, squabbling as children did and still do, whilst being chastised by our parents.

At one time our Dad grassed over a section of the plot allowing games like cricket and football to be played.
It certainly was a fun area where only good things happened.

As far as the gardening went, well, we may have harvested the odd bunch of radishes or onions but if the ‘fun’ word could have been harvested and we were trying to dig for victory after all.

I can’t remember when our family fun days actually came to an end. They just stopped.

I recall the next episode vividly.
It was still 1944 and the V1’s were targeting the Woolwich-Arsenal yet again. What treasures I wondered were in that building for it to be so important to the enemy?
We only knew of the V1’s by the nickname of Buzz-Bombs or Doodlebugs and that of the V stood for Vengeance! They were like big black monsters in the eyes of a child, aimed at London and timed to cut out in midair, they drifted then nosed onto the unsuspecting target.

Incidentally, we did notice that the plot bottle had been replaced back upon the high shelf in the kitchen now just a gleaming ornament again.

In the 1940’s adults were under the impression that ‘children were to be seen but not heard!’
Why the plot bottle was now in the no-go area in our kitchen again was not explained and I was not self confident enough to ask.

This meant it was now free; it was in the lap of the Gods as to where it would fall.

My young brother and I lay side by side quietly next to our dad thinking he was asleep, the silence was indescribable. So empty.
As the big silent hole seemed to get deeper in our young minds, dads arm gathered us both in towards him, holding us so tightly, and all three bodies lying so still as one.

The almightily crash an earth shattering noise followed, and then a dull silence took over.
It seemed to last forever.

Later like ants peering out of anthills to see if the coast was clear, people began to emerge from below the surface of the earth our of the shelters, startled, excited, scared voices trying to understand. Children crying because they could not understand this extraordinary happening, women with un-smiling pale faces hanging onto each other for comfort, looking for reassurance.
My brother and I as children, just wondered where the bomb had dropped but more importantly when was out mother coming home with our older sister?

Looking around, all the houses in the streets had been shattered by the shock waves. Plies of bricks and rubble with dust still rising form the ruins could be seen.

Our beloved glider-field and our plot had taken a direct hit devastating the area around it for miles.
The whole place had changed once again.

Today it now boasts a housing estate alive with laughing children and barking dogs and parked cars.
Life goes on.

As for the plot bottle, well it had a very sad ending.
The frosted gleaming glass bottle was shaken off the shelf in the pantry by the blast from the Buzz-Bomb when it crashed onto the glider-field.
The bottle smashed down onto the highly polished red tiled floor of the kitchen, shattered and lay in a shimmering pile of diamond like pieces.

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