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Contemplate our family scene as World War II broke out. There was the ‘big deal’ of the council house that we lived in. No doubt it was quite something after the barrack-like Stone Hall which Mother, Father and, live-in, Grandfather Percy had previously occupied - but 53 North Down Crescent had its shortcomings. In common with a lot of building in Plymouth, it was carved into sloping ground. The front garden never recovered from the slate that was revealed in this process - privet ruled, OK.
The back garden showed signs of early enthusiasm: a small lawn partitioned off with trelliswork, a wire framework for a huge loganberry bush, a flower portion and vegetable patch. But the dominating feature was the shed. My childhood impression was that it was quite large but its unique property was that it leaned back at an angle of at least 15°. There was obviously some underlying assembly fault but it was never corrected; that early enthusiasm had faded.
Grandfather, with his gardener background, did his bit until old age seized up the essential horticultural muscles. I showed an interest but it was a forlorn battle with poor soil and little nutrient. There was also the matter of old ceiling material. Although it was before my time I feel that, totally non-gardening, Father must have applied his scientific mind to a problem with the soil and decided that, when some old ceilings were being pulled down in the house, the debris should be spread on the garden to counteract the acidity of the soil. Plant life didn’t seem to care too much for broken lumps of ceiling plaster.
One fantastic feature of the garden was blackberry bushes - not your wild sort - these were ‘American Blackberries’ and produced fruit one inch across and full of juice. One of these bushes spread over the top of the Andersen Shelter - and there is a story to tell about that.
With the outbreak of World War II the civilian population is under threat of annihilation by the Luftwaffe. I have to presume that the countermeasure to this was the project of a Mr Andersen, for a shelter was named after him. Whatever, each household was delivered a heap of corrugated iron, some angle iron, nuts and bolts and an instruction sheet. The latter detailed the method of turning this ironmongery into a family air raid shelter with a semi-circular roof, to be half buried in a hole in the ground with the removed soil then placed over the top.
Receiving such directions was anathema to my father, as was digging a 4-foot deep, 8 x 4 feet hole. A bit of lateral thinking was required - or any sort of thinking to get out digging that damn hole. Solution: erect the shelter in the front room - which is just what he did!
Poor Mother was in despair; it has to be said that our front room was not a ‘front room’ in the Victorian sense, but it was our dining room and now it was three parts occupied by this corrugated iron monstrosity. I don’t know what happened to persuade Father to take it down; it must have been something pretty formidable for his mind was not easily changed, particularly when it concerned his more outlandish ideas. But it was dismantled and the hole in the garden dug.
We did go into the shelter one night, during an air raid, and that was enough to convince us not to repeat the exercise. This decision was reinforced by the fact that a shelter, complete with family, only a few doors away from ours, received a direct bomb hit. So, we stayed indoors; a bed for John and I was brought downstairs and the dining table top rigged up over it - poor Mother had lost her dining facility again. The shelter was used to store coal; this was not ideal as the top of the coal was below ground level - and the shelter flooded! But the blackberries that grew on top were delicious.
I was six years old when the war started so I have some vivid memories of the Home Front. What is amazing is that I do not recall any sense of danger, in fact it was all a bit of a good game. My father was sent from the Devonport Dockyard to Penzance to oversee the war effort work of a small shipbuilder. Mother, John and I followed. Initially we stayed in a Guest House. Our young ears used to pick up snippets of adult conversation. I remember one topic being that the German-born landlord of the establishment had been interred - could it mean that he’d been buried alive? I know that we were being bombarded with anti-German propaganda but, surely, this was a bit strong?
I am reminded of another overheard remark, albeit at a different location. Plymouth — and more particularly our location in Devonport — was heavily populated by the Royal Navy There had been some sort of road accident at a junction near our house and I heard Mother telling a friend:
‘Well, the sailor came round the corner on his motorcycle and lost his head ...’
I can remember this mental picture I conjured up, in my young mind, of this matelot’s head, complete with round hat, rolling along the road! I had a problem though, creating a picture in my mind to illustrate another overheard remark:
‘He broke her heart.’
But, back to Penzance. We moved to what seemed a huge house right by the beach and spent a lot of time on the sand. One day we heard an aircraft and looked up to see swastikas and then as the aircraft passed overhead, bombs fell out. They landed in the sea at what seemed a very close distance; certainly dead fish from the explosion were thrown up on the rocks. What excitement - not fear!
There were several night raids on Penzance and we would spend the night in the basement. Our stay in Cornwall lasted nine months and we returned to Plymouth in time for more excitement - the Blitz. It was all a wonder for a small boy, the explosions, the searchlights, the deafening pom-pom of the anti-aircraft guns. A barrage balloon unit was established in our local park. For what more could a young lad wish?
Yet danger was close at hand. One piece of Air Raid Precautions (ARP) advice was to open windows and doors to lessen the damage from bomb blast. The air raid siren had sounded and Father had opened the front door and windows and was going to the back when a bomb fell, obviously alarmingly close. The blast blew out the fixed centre portion of our back room window. There was obviously then some reverse of airflow because the window was blown back into its slot. This might seem unbelievable but the proof it happened was the trapped curtains.
Boys always collect things - and we had shrapnel, the bigger and more jagged it was the better. There were dangerous items; I find it unbelievable now but I know that memory is not deceiving me - Grandfather found an unexploded incendiary bomb and he kept it in his room. We were shown this treasure on our rare visits.
School went on - and didn’t. Word had got about so we knew that our walk one morning, with Mother to Johnston Terrace, was a waste of time but we went to see the smouldering ruin of our school. Places were soon found for us at Camels Head - that was the name of the district; I know not why! …

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