大象传媒

A CHILD'S WAR by Glenda Meikle

I was born in Birmingham in 1938, so my early childhood was during the war years. Below are random memories from that period.

Outside our front door was an ARP bucket of sand for putting out fires - not to be played with!

On the pavement near our gate was a pig bin - a galvanised metal dustbin into which we were asked to put food scraps. The contents were collected for pigswill. I didn't like accompanying my Mother when she went to put in the potato peelings and stale bread etc. The smell was foul when the lid was lifted and there were always wasps buzzing round.

When my Grandfather heard the coalman's horse and cart coming down the road, he grabbed his bucket and shovel and followed in the hope of getting manure for his roses. He had to be quick off his mark, or someone else would beat him to it.

In the back garden was an Anderson shelter. Inside it was dark, damp, cold, smelly, dirty and full of cobwebs, spiders, slaters and all manner of creepy crawlies. Fortunately we never had to use it.

My little sister was a premature baby, less than 3lbs at birth. There were neither incubators nor special baby units available then. The doctor gave my Mother little hope for her survival. Her first bed was inside the airing cupboard - the warmest place in the house. She was much too delicate to spend the night in an outdoor shelter, but the retired couple next door let us use their table shelter.

Just before the air raid siren sounded, our black cocker spaniel, Joe, would start howling. It was uncanny. That was the signal for me to jump out of bed and try and put my siren suit on over my pyjamas, while Mum dealt with the baby. The pram was left in the hall every night, packed ready for a quick exit. A hot water bottle would be placed in the blanket to keep it warm. There would be feeds made up [in boat-shaped bottles], nappies and clothes, a drink for me and a flask of tea and sandwiches for Mum and, of course, Mum's handbag. In it, as well as her purse and cigarettes, she had the ration books, bankbook and identity cards.

I wore an identity bracelet - a chain with a small disc bearing my name and address and some little silver threepenny bits. The uncle who gave it to me intended adding another coin for each birthday, but he was sent to Africa with the RAF.

My Father tried to join the RAF and the navy, but was turned down on account of his poor eyesight. He was a pay clerk with the Dunlop Rubber Company, so he applied and was accepted for the Royal Army Pay Corp. He told me in later years that what he disliked most, was writing to war widows to explain their pension entitlements.

There was great excitement when Dad came home on leave. Only Joe, the dog, wasn't pleased to see him. He was probably jealous of the attention Dad received and barked and barked. His dislike spread to every uniform we met, even the postman. When Dad left again, we had to keep smiling and waving till he couldn't see us any more. Then Mum would start to cry, so I did too. She held the baby with one arm and hugged me with the other. I tried to hug both of them, as far as my short arms would allow.

When we dashed next door with the wail of the siren ringing in our ears, the doors were left unlocked by request. This was to allow easy access for fire fighters if necessary. Nothing was ever stolen. My sister and I were tucked up in make shift beds in the table shelter. It was a strong cage with a solid metal top and base. It sat in the living room with a chenille cloth over it and was used as a table during the day. When there was a heavy raid close by the adults crawled in beside us, but usually they sat in the dark by the French windows. Our houses were near the top of a steep hill [now level with Spaghetti Junction]. From their vantage point, they discussed the exact location of the fires blazing below. For many years after the end of the war, Bonfire Night held no pleasure for me.

Just beyond the high wooden fence at the end of the back garden, the ground dropped suddenly down a sand cliff to the flatter, densely built up districts radiating out below. These housed the workforce for the many factories scattered about in which weapons, ammunition, vehicles, rubber tyres, hoses, frogman suits, inflatable dinghies etc and many kinds of specialised equipment were made for the war effort - prime targets for German bombers. That is why barrage balloons sprouted from the open green patch by the river. It was from there that search lights sliced through the black night sky, trying to pinpoint targets for the ack-ack guns.

One night there was an extra loud thud that shook the whole house. When we returned home after the "all clear", although the glass was intact, Mum found that the metal handle on the French windows had sheared off and was lying in the middle of the carpet. On the mantelpiece we had a bronze figurine of a woman standing beside a lion. The lion was still on the base, but the woman had snapped off at her ankles and was also lying on the carpet. Bomb blast did strange things.

We learned to live with fear and to expect the unexpected. The following poem expresses some of the experiences indelibly imprinted in the memory of a child in wartime England.

THE MORNING AFTER
By Glenda Meikle

Sodden plaster's musty reek
charred wood's choking stench,
the smells of fear and insecurity.

A child's inquisitive gaze searches
for hints of former normality -
shreds of curtain still attached
to crazy angled window frames,
ruined furniture poking out
of lumpy heaps of rubble
and, wonder of wonders, high up
a bath clung to its plumbing
when the floor beneath collapsed.

What of the couple
who slept in that room
open to the sky?
Don't ask.
Don't think.

Last night their house was bombed.
Will it be ours tonight?

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.