大象传媒

Christine S. Cuss nee Pierce

Christine survives Blitz

World War II was declared when I was five years old. There are many stories that I could write about my childhood, but I will write about one night in the Blitz when I was nine years old.

The Blitz was a period of intensive air attacks on London which took place at night and during the day towards the end of the War. German aeroplanes dropped thousands of bombs on London and major cities destroying homes, factories and schools, killing many people. People lived in fear, great anxiety and often considerable sadness. They lived from day to day, and prayed for peace.

When German planes were spotted crossing the Channel, messages were relayed to towns and cities in the direction that the planes were heading. A siren would be sounded, and people would run for cover, carrying their gas masks with them, to air raid shelters where they stayed until the 鈥榓ll clear鈥�.

I lived with my parents and grandmother in a large house in West London. Each evening, the family would get ready at 7 p.m. to go to the shelter where they stayed until 7 a.m. the following morning. It was a public shelter, so all the neighbours went too. My mother used to dress me in a warm 鈥榮iren suit鈥�, an all in one outfit with a zip up the front. We carried our blankets into the shelter and made up our beds on bunks which lined the long brick walls. My mother would tuck me up on the top bunk, and then sit with my father and the other grown ups on benches which ran along the middle of the shelter. Everyone chatted; people were very kind to each other during the War. They shared in each others problems and sadness. Many husbands, sons and brothers were away fighting, and there would be great excitement when a letter was received from a loved one. However, there were times of great sorrow when a telegram arrived from the Home Office informing that a loved one had been killed, or was feared missing. There were good times, too, as all the neighbours sat in the dimly lit shelter, and occasionally someone would play a mouth organ and we would join in and sing to keep our spirits up.

The Blitz was a bad time to live through. Night after night, we would hear German planes flying overhead. As bombs were dropped, a whistling noise would be heard, followed by a big bang. During a bad raid, people sat silently trying to judge the size of the bang and how close to us it had landed. No one was allowed to show a light after dark. All windows were covered with thick black material, and if a light was seen, an air raid warden would shout, 鈥淧ut that light out鈥�, and it would be put out immediately. This was to ensure that German planes would see nothing as they flew over head. All windows were covered with a strong sticky tape, to prevent glass shattering should there be an explosion. Once or twice, I was allowed to look out of the shelter when an air raid was on, and I saw search lights flashing across the black sky. When two beams of light crossed, catching a German plane in the spotlight, big guns would aim at the plane and try to shoot it down. There were many large balloons filled with gas, called barrage balloons, dotted across the sky. These were a hazard to the planes.

Towards the end of the War, the Germans designed a new plane called a Doodlebug. These were pilotless planes which were launched into the air like a rocket. They made a loud droning noise as they made their way across the sky. They were set to travel a certain distance before the engine cut out, then there would be a few second silence before the plane crashed and exploded on, what the Germans hoped would be, a good target.

People learned to dread the sound of the Doodlebug or flying bomb. On 23rd June, 1944, we went to the shelter the same as always, but it was to be a night that changed our lives. At 1 a.m., everyone was asleep on the bunks except for my father who was awake because he wanted to go to the toilet. We did not like using the chemical toilets at the end of the shelter, so he whispered to my mother that he was going to run home. My mother decided to go with him so that she could make a hot drink for them both. They should not have left the shelter as there was an air raid on, but they ran home quickly and within a few minutes, my mother heard a Doodlebug coming. She was frightened, and shouted to my father to hurry as she ran back to the safety of the shelter. My father ran out of the house, but as he looked up, he saw the Doodlebug was overhead. To his horror, the engine cut out, and he ran for his life, but as he could not quite reach the shelter, he threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms. There was a big explosion.

I was startled awake to find people crying and my mother holding me close. The air was full of dust. At first, we thought that we were trapped in the shelter, but to everyone鈥檚 relief, an air raid warden walked in wearing his tin helmet, followed by my father. My mother cried with relief to see me father standing there. He was shocked and very dirty, but safe. We stumbled out of the shelter into the dark night. It was a distressing and bewildering sight as we observed the devastation around us. Men were frantically digging to get to people buried in the ruins, and a man鈥檚 voice called out, 鈥淗as anyone got a pair of ladies size six shoes?鈥�, as he helped a lady to climb over the bricks and broken glass with her bare feet.

That night, we walked the streets, homeless with nothing in the world but the clothes we stood up in and my parents had a small leather suitcase which contained birth and marriage certificates and any important documents. We made our way to a nearby shelter where we took refuge. People were kind, and the Salvation Army were there, serving cups of tea. My mother tried to settle me down again for a few hours, but I cried because my cat, Billie, had been in the house, and there was no way that anything could have survived the mountain of rubble that had once been my home. It had taken the full blast of the bomb.

The next morning, my mother took me to the home of a friend who gave me one of her little girl鈥檚 dresses, a couple of vests, two pairs of pants and some socks. My Grandmother had another house by the sea, so we said goodbye to her, pleased that she had somewhere to go. However, we had nowhere, and we had to seek help to find a home. My parents went to the local Council offices and were told that if they could find any accommodation that was empty, we could move in and the Council would requisition (take over) that property for the duration of the War. We were lucky to find a house, which we shared with another family.

We had no furniture or possessions as everything had been lost. My parents were given dockets to buy furniture. Everything, of course, was rationed 鈥� food, clothes, sweets and furniture. People living in countries like Canada and Australia sent parcels of blankets and clothes to help people like ourselves, and we were grateful to receive anything we were given.

A week later, we visited the site on which had once stood our home. It was a sad sight. One of the neighbours came up to us and told us that they had seen our cat. We could hardly believe it. If it were true, he would almost certainly be starving. We climbed over the remains of our home calling, 鈥淏illie, Billie, here Billie鈥�, but we could not find him, and we heard nothing. We were about to give up when we heard a feint meow, meow. We peeped under a pile of broken timbers and there we found him. He was very thin, and too weak to walk. We picked him up carefully and carried him into the shelter where we had been on the night of the bombing. Someone ran to get him a saucer of milk, but he was too weak to lap, so my mother dipped her finger into the milk and gently rubbed it over his gums. As she continued to do this, his tongue started to move, and gradually he started to lap for himself. Billie was wrapped in a warm cardigan and we carried him back to our new home. Billie was safe. I was very happy and helped to nurse him back to health.

The courage and determination of the people of London not to give in was to be admired. Each time they suffered a bitter blow, they coped bravely. They were kind, considerate, cheerful and compassionate to each other.

To give an example of this, I celebrated my 10th birthday three weeks after our home was destroyed. By that time, the site had been completely cleared, only one wall remained standing. It had been a terrible ordeal, but we were thankful to be alive. All the neighbours got together, and it was decided to hold a birthday party for me. Coupons were pooled as food was rationed. We had paper hats, sandwiches, cakes and tea. It was a wonderful birthday party and the Daily Mirror newspaper sent a reporter down to take photographs. 鈥淏uzz-bomb fell, but Christine still had party鈥�, - it was a big boost to everyone鈥檚 morale, but most important was the very positive message we were sending the Germans, that they could destroy our homes, but they could not destroy our spirit.

The experiences of my childhood in my formative years, have left me fiercely patriotic, and forever grateful to those men and women who fought, and many died, to give my generation a safe country into which we have lived to bring up our children and our grandchildren. We are the last generation who can remember WW2. We salute them all.

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