大象传媒

An extract taken from my reminiscences of the War titled "A Hell of an Experience"

1941-42:The War Comes to Norwich

We did not know what to expect once the Battle of Britain had been won but it was still thought that Hitler would invade. Due to the perpetual presence of enemy aircraft, I had been kept at home, rather than being sent to school. Having one child shot at in the school playground was worrying enough, but the thought of having two children in the firing line was the ultimate worry of my parents and, I should imagine, every other parent as well. For my sister of course it was fait accompli: she had started school before the outbreak of war.
My idyllic situation of all play and no work was not to last though. Just before Easter 1941, Sylvia came home with a message that teacher had said that if any of the children had brothers and/or sisters who were over five years old and had not yet started school, then they were to start immediately after Easter. I think there was some threat that the 'School Board Man' would be after any parents who faltered. Everybody dreaded that man: he would prowl around the streets, on his bike, and woe betide any child playing truant. That was enough for my mother, no way was she going to have the School Board man on to her. It was to be the lesser of the two evils: School for Brian.
I can remember being taken to school on the first day and standing at the top of the steps leading into the playground. Quite honestly, I was not impressed-it wasn't for me. Horns Lane School was situated on both side of the hill. On the South side was the senior school, to which Sylvia went, and on the north side was the infants school. Well, I say school - where I was to go was actually the dinner room - the school had been commandeered by a boot and
shoe factory, whose premises had in turn been taken over for munitions manufacture. Gradually I was coaxed into descending the steps and was introduced to Miss Biles my first teacher. We shared the room with the older class of the infant section, and each afternoon we were sent to bed to rest-that is the others were: not me. I hadn't been used to sleeping during the day and I certainly wasn't going to start now: the teachers graciously allowed me to play with the toys.

We had more serious things to do though, such as fire drill! Even at such tender ages, we had to be able to evacuate the classroom quickly when the air raid warning sounded. Our shelter was a brick built surface type, similar to that opposite my home on All Saints' Green. For two teachers to make sure that something like five dozen five and six year olds could make it to the shelter before bombs started raining down was quite a task. But they managed. It was a help that our coats and gas masks were kept in the shelter: and thereby hangs a tale. One afternoon, when school had finished, I went to the shelter to put on my coat, left the playground, met my sister and we started for home. We hadn't gone far when Sylvia shouted, "Your gas mask!" I didn't have it with me. In those days it serious not to have your mask with you. We raced back to school and into the air raid shelter. But - no gas mask. It was eventually found by one of the teachers. It had been hidden in an air vent. Just shows how irresponsible, even in war-time, some people can be.

I stayed at the infants' school until Christmas 1941. From January 1942 I was transferred across the road to 'the big school'. Either I was a good pupil, or I was too old for the infants': I suspect that it was the latter case. That winter was really cold. Each day, we all had to drink a third of a pint of milk, and we had to thaw it on the radiators before it could be consumed. I hated it! I didn't have to drink cold milk at home, so why at school? But drink it I had to. It must have been something to do with augmenting our diets, for food shortages were beginning to hit us quite hard.

Then came my big fall. It happened on February 28th 1942. I remember the date well, as it was the day before my seventh birthday. What a present!. The 'big school' had underground shelters with about a dozen concrete steps leading to the dug-out. I cannot imagine why nobody had thought to put a cover over the steps or at least railings around what was a large cavity. It was morning playtime and we were playing 'chasings', and my concentration was on not being caught. In other words, I wasn't looking where I was going. The time it takes to fall nine or ten feet is no time at all. I crashed straight over the edge, above the doorway, and landed with my head banging against the bottom step. No easy way for me.

As I gathered my thoughts I thought perhaps I should get up and climb up the steps. Teachers and school friends alike waited at the top: I think that they expected me to be dead. It must have been a fright to them to see a ghost get up and start walking. Of course, today, if an accident like that were to happen you would be rushed to hospital: not so in the tough world of 1942. A series of cold pennies pressed on to a large bruise that was increasing in size by the second had to suffice. It was surprising what fifteen minutes in the headmistress's room could do to heal wounds in those days. Then it was back to class!
Shortly after my escapade wooden lids were fitted and railings placed around the dug-outs. Too late, but perhaps the next accident could have been fatal.

I suppose that, despite some air raids, the Battle of Britain and a general disruption of normal life (at my age of course the war was 'normal'), we had really had it quite easy. Hitler was still in Germany and 'The Invasion' hadn't happened. We were blessed with some lovely summers, I had had an extra eighteen months at home and, apart from my fall, life was generally OK. But not for long!

The Night of Monday 25th/Tuesday 26th April 1942.
I cannot remember the exact sequence of events, but I do recall that the air raid warning sounded around half past nine. Probably the crash warning sounded at the same time as the siren. It was a hasty retreat to the Norwich Union air raid shelter. It was a very late warning, because bombs were already dropping-the enemy were overhead. We stayed in the shelter for many hours, singing as we always did on such occasions. It was in the shelter that I learned to knit. I think it came as quite a surprise nineteen years later when I knitted a pram blanket for our first baby, Christine.
We were given a real pasting that night! The destruction was unbelievable. But the next morning it was business as usual. Those that had to go to work did so-and we children went to school, calm and collected as if nothing had happened.

The Night of Wednesday 27th/Thursday 28th April 1942
It couldn't happen twice, could it? Well it did! Around the same time the crash sounded again. This time we spent all night in the shelter and were not let out until around 7.30 in the morning. And we had suffered as much, if not more than the Monday night. It was either this night or the Monday that we all thought that it was the end. There was a horrific scream from a bomb as it
plummeted to earth - it just had to be a direct hit on our shelter. As it was, it missed - but only just. Somebody happened to say, "This is it!"- we were lucky.
As usual, after a disturbed night, it was to school in the morning. At times, my sister and I went to school unaccompanied but that day our mother took us. Along the way we were met with, "No good going any further, its been bombed!". Naturally, we couldn't believe it, or was it just curiosity that we continued the whole way to school? Sure enough though, it was in ruins, as was St. Julian's Church nearby. Well, my schooling hadn't lasted long: just one year and it was faced with a major disruption. There were no other schools in the vicinity that had sufficient vacancies to accept us all. St. Augustines was too far away, and anyway, that too had been laid flat. Bignold, in Crook's Place was too small. And so, we had the rest of the term, some twelve weeks, at home. We weren't to get away with it too lightly though, for we had to go to school, at Bignold, during the summer holidays! Even then we had several disruptions, with a return to daytime air raids-so several sessions were spent 'underground'.
The morning after the raids my mother made a point of searching the notices for the names of those known to be have been killed. Those notices were posted at the Guildhall and Public library in St. Andrew's Street. Being Norwich people, we had relatives in the City and we wished to know if they had survived the night. We were fortunate not to suffer any loss of life. On the Saturday following the two nights of 'Blitz', and the loss of our school, our mother decided to treat us to a slap up meal. Where all the food came from remains one of the wonders of the modern world! Full plates of vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, a generous portion of meat, probably mutton or veal, and for dessert a large rice pudding. And so we sat down. I sat near the window, and could see into the courtyard. "Mummy, there's a policeman coming to the door!". Mother went to the back door and asked what he wanted. More to the point, he asked what we were doing still in the house. Surprised, the reply was something like "We live here". His answer to that was "Get out!-and quick". It transpired that an usherette at the Carlton cinema, had heard a ticking sound coming from beneath the stage. It appeared that she had found the bomb that came screaming down on the Wednesday night: and it was unexploded1. Everybody else was told, around nine in the morning, to evacuate their houses but nobody thought to tell us. We had been the only occupants on All Saints Green for the last four hours!
Dinner was left! All that food was to go to waste and our Dalmatian dog was to be left in the house, alone for the next four days. We quickly bundled together some belongings, probably extra clothes and pyjamas, and made a hasty departure. The only place that my mother could think of taking us was to where my father was at work. Fortunately, he had a farmer friend who lived at East Carleton, just outside Norwich. And so we spent the next four days at his home. What I can remember of that stay was that it was most unpleasant. Unfortunately I did not enjoy the cooking on offer, but then we had to be grateful for what we received: it could have been much worse. The other unpleasantry was the toilet: or rather the 'bin'. And that was all it was! A wooden shed, no more than two feet square, in the garden and in which was placed a metal bin. It was emptied each evening-emptied, that is, on to the garden-and we were eating the vegetables that grew from it. It was no wonder that I didn't each too much during those four days. We were allowed to return home on the following Tuesday. All the food was still on the table. Our poor old dog hadn't touched a thing from the table-she looked frightened and hungry, and she had left only one puddle on the floor.
Sleeping arrangements were to be changed again! I remember that at some time during these days (or rather nights) it was decided that we should drive into the country and sleep the night in the car. And so the taxi was commandeered, (it must have been my father's night off-or something) and he drove us to 'The Dun Cow' public house at Swainsthorpe and parked by the side of the pub. I think the landlord must
have wondered what was going on, for I seem to remember that my father was challenged. The one thing about the War was that people were considerate. Having understood our situation, the friendly landlord was only too pleased to let us stay the night. It is not comfortable sleeping in a car! The memory as to whether we actually slept has long passed but I do know that it was the one and only time that we undertook avoid the bombing this way. Sleeping arrangements had to change.

The past few days had been particularly bad for us and we all realised that we were fortunate to still be alive. Something had to be done to escape further bombing. It was Thursday 5th May that my father managed to hire a disused chapel at Framingham Pigot. My pal's family had agreed to join us, and we were to make Framingham our home for the foreseeable future. The three ton van, that was the property of the haulage company E. R. Ives, was commandeered by my pals father. He normally drove overnight, to London, to collect films and distribute them to cinemas on the next day. On this particular night it seemed that there were no films to collect! Strange how many vehicles, belonging to businesses, were used for other matters at this time. But I don't think that anyone would have objected-or didn't if they knew anyway.

The chapel was situated opposite a fork road, about a hundred and fifty yards from the church. (Sylvia would be married in that church in 1961). There was a small overgrown garden to the side and rear, and water had to be drawn from a pump. Whilst the grown-ups unloaded the van, we three youngsters set
about tidying the garden. I don't know how long it was before we were 'settled', but teatime had arrived. The pump didn't work! Over the road, to the only house around, to beg for water-inconvenient, but it didn't matter. We worked into the evening and then it was time for bed. A fire had been lit in the grate at one end of the room, presumably to 'air' the building, which was obviously damp and musty. We settled down for the night!
It was my mother who spotted it first-the flicker of lights. "Is the fire out, Phyllis?". The windows had small coloured panes at the top, and they were lighting up in rapid succession, giving the effect of flickering flames. "Yes!" answered my pal's mother. It really could not be! The dull thud of bombs dropping? Was it the sounds that we had heard, in Norwich, so many times before? BANG..BANG!! Yes it was, and it was followed by the quick rat-a-tat-tat of the Ack Ack guns of the AA battery
just over a mile up the road at Poringland. We had made a vital error. Just before the war, Britain had been developed Radar. RAF Stoke Holy Cross was one of the Radar sites. The camp was actually in Poringland but the eight pylons that served the station were just beyond the Poringland cross roads, at Stoke Holy Cross. It was obvious that the Germans were aware of the development and they had chosen that night to 'take out' the station.
It was my father who assumed control of the situation. "Under the beds" he bellowed. So we dived under the beds. "Dress the children" was his next command. "Under the beds-dress the children". We didn't know exactly what we were doing. It was hopeless to get dressed during the intervals of respite in the bombing: for there were none. So we climbed into the van to make our escape. My pal sat in the cab with his mother and with his father driving-my mother, father, sister and me were locked in the van box. There was no way out! Had the lorry had crashed, we would have been left to our fate.
Which way to go? The main road gave us a choice-turn west toward Norwich (no fear!) or east toward Lowestoft (no fear, the bombers came in that way). The only other direction available was chosen: toward Poringland and run the gauntlet through the bombs and then turn south of east toward Bungay-and the coast. We really did not have much of a choice. As it turned out, the safest choice would have been to head for Norwich, for there no bombs dropped on the City that night! How we got away with it I do not know! But we did. I seem to remember that we were driving quite fast and eventually the van pulled to a halt. We were at Brooke just some five or six miles east of Poringland. A gentleman jumped out of a ditch and stopped us. I don't whether he was concerned about our safety or just curious. He asked where we had come from and where was being bombed. I suppose that we all trusted him-who knows, he could have been a spy? Well, he wasn't, and he took us into his bungalow where he gave us all a cup of tea. Eventually the bombing stopped and we headed back. One thing was certain, like the night in the taxi, it was to be our one and only night away from 'home'. It was decided that if we were to be killed, then better in our own home than in a strange building out in the country. The next day the beds were returned to All Saints Green, and there they remained.

The Night of Thursday 26th/Friday 27th June 1942
This one caught us out! The Crash Warning must have sounded at the same time as the siren. When that happened, you either ran as fast as you could or you took cover. We opted not to run across the yard and to the shelter. Instead, we dived for the cupboard under the stairs. It was close; probably as close as it had been at any time in the past. This Blitz we immediately named
'The Fire Blitz' for the bombs were incendiaries rather than high explosives. Total and utter devastation! Cringing under the stairs, we were not aware of the disaster that was unfolding so close by. Across the road, Bonds departmental store was blazing furiously. We could hear the crashing of the plate glass windows but what we were to see later was beyond belief. My father arrived home some time during the night-he banged on the roller shutter and called out to us. It was only then that we became aware of the destruction around us. The heat at the front of the house was unbearable.
That night we also lost the premises of my father's cousin, Thos. Hastings. Situated on the corner of All Saints Street and Ber Street they were in the same block as Bonds store. Our former home at No 3, Market Avenue, was totally destroyed. What would have been our chances of escaping, had we been in the cellar? The stables at the back were also gutted, so we would not have got out that way. I shudder to think that but for moving in 1939, we could have been burnt alive. Yet again we had come so close to the end! My mother never made a point of traipsing us around in the middle of the night to see what was happening-I doubt whether many did. The next morning we took a look around the City. There were hoses everywhere and firemen were still fighting the fires. Much of the City centre had been destroyed. Norwich would never be the same again!

1942 must have been my unlucky year: or lucky, depending on which way you choose to look at it. But it was the year that I had my second fall. During one of the Baedekker raids we hurried as fast as we could to the shelter. I always led the way, probably because I was the most nimble of the three of us, or more likely that I just didn't wish to go to Heaven just yet! Not only that, but I did not need the use of the dimmed torch to see where I was going. Well, neither my mother nor sister used to play under the roof above the shelter, but I knew the surroundings. I didn't even have to count the number of steps that it took me from one beam to the next, nor where the steps down were. I knew them all by pure instinct. Once at the top of the steps two more paces straight to the stairs down, at the bottom make a one hundred and ten degree turn to the
right, a few more paces and I would be at the door of the shelter. There was only one problem on this occasion: the steps had been moved. It had occurred to one of the maintenance men that it would be more beneficial to have the steps flush to the wall of the shelter instead of leading away from the door. It was a good idea: except that he told nobody what he had done-and he had not finished the job, there being no banister rail. Instead of taking the two or three paces across the top platform, I walked along an RSJ about twelve inches wide. I collided with the next roof truss, turned round, walked back and then lost my balance and fell. It was another large bump on the head!

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