大象传媒

On the 11th August 1939 I had my fourteenth birthday and because I read the newspapers and heard the news broadcasts on the wireless I was aware that war was imminent.

We had been issued with gas-masks, air-raid shelters were being built, people were already cries-crossing their windows with sticky tape to prevent glass flying about in the blast from a bomb and important buildings were being sand-bagged. I felt so sorry for my parents and others of their generation, who had survived World War 1 and now, just 21 years later, they faced another one.

At this time I was living in north London in a new, very modern, four-bedroomed house with my parents, my elder brother who was 18 years and about to join the R.A.F., my sister, who was almost 12, my younger brother, 6, and a Swiss live-in maid

My father was working in the London Office of a retired Colonel who inherited three properties a six-storey mansion overlooking the Mall, a large house and estate in Scotland and Hever Castle in Kent, the former home of Anne Boleyn.

Evacuated to Hever

A few days before the end of August my father announced that his employer had offered him a furnished house close by the castle for the duration of the war, and he had accepted the offer. Although my mother was very reluctant to leave her beautiful, modern home, and buoyed up by the hope that we might soon return, suitcases were hastily packed, my family and I squashed into our little car, and made the long journey across London towards Hever where we stayed for the next seven years.

Not knowing what would happen when the war really started, we thought of going to Hever as an on-going holiday, an adventure. The house was situated close to the back entrance to the castle and was part of a modern, purpose built complex of buildings comprising stables for polo ponies, hunting and riding horses, tack rooms and barns and huge garages for the Daimlers and Rolls Royces. It was not long before the cats, practically all the horses, the grooms and the chauffeurs, who were also accommodated in the complex, disappeared. Only one disabled groom remained.

Upstairs in our house there were three bedrooms, a bathroom, but to our horror, no lavatory. Downstairs, a sitting room, and a large living room, heated by a fire from an old-fashioned kitchen range.

Hever, we discovered was nothing more than a hamlet. Six minutes uphill walk from our house were the main gates to the Castle, which was well hidden from sight, the small historic church, two cottages, built before the reign of Henry V111, and now occupied by two sisters, both retired schoolteachers. Set slightly apart was the village school with a small hall and one classroom in which one teacher taught all the children whose ages ranged from 5 - 11 There was a post-box set in a wall and the Henry V111 inn, built in a pseudo-Tudor style by a previous owner of the Castle, for the benefit of the locals and the estate workers. Apart from a scattering of cottages along the lanes, that was Hever, there were no shops. To reach a shop meant a 20 -25 minute walk from our house to the nearest bus stop to which a bus came at two-hourly intervals, but despite the war it always came. It was 3 miles to a selection of quaint, old-fashioned shops, supplying just the basic needs of day-to-day living. Our nearest big town was, fourteen miles away by road or a 3 minute walk to the local station. However, we had to be grateful to have a house away from London, thousands of children and adults were re-locating to safer places and were having to adjust to circumstances that would change their lives for ever. I was also very aware of the thousands of refugees that were streaming westwards across Europe to escape the enemy. What had I got to grumble about? At least I was with my family.

Almost sent to Canada

During the winter of 1939-40 my father was secretly making arrangements to send my sister, my little brother and I to Canada, presumably assuming that this would be the best way to keep us safe. I learned later that he was insisting that we all went to people of the same strict religious beliefs as he held.

Oblivious of what my father was planning, I was frequently reading in the paper and hearing on the news, reports of the heavy losses suffered by the Merchant Navy when their ships went back and forth across the Atlantic. Even though they were in convoy, and protected by warships, they were sunk by enemy submarines, but we seldom learned of one those U-boats being sunk. To drown in a slowly sinking ship in the freezing Atlantic must have been a terrible way to die.

Then one day, my mother, who could never keep a secret, told me what my father had been planning. Apparently all the arrangements had been made but at the last moment he pulled back from the brink, evidently thinking that the risks of us reaching Canada safely were too great. I felt sick that my father, without ever talking to us about these plans, could send us on such a dangerous journey, to live in a very cold country, thousands of miles away, with total strangers. I felt sick that I would have been responsible for my brother and sister and I felt sick that if we had been unhappy we could not have come home until after the war. Anyway, it didn't happen. I felt that I had had a narrow escape.

School

It had soon become obvious that my young brother could not continue in the class at the village school. The fee-paying boys from Westminster School London had been evacuated, and my brother was allowed to join them. The boys travelled from the local station to where they were joined with the local public school, and a private boarding school. This meant a long cycle ride for my little brother, in the dark each way, along narrow country lanes. Not surprisingly, we were all worried about him travelling in the blackout, through all weathers, sometimes in an air raid and with only a minimal light on his bike. There was a great sense of relief when we heard the 'whoosh' of his bike on the gravel as he arrived home. My parents decided that this situation couldn't continue, and he became a boarder at a private 'prep' school, in East Grinstead. My mother was bereft at saying 'goodbye' to her 'baby', but Martin loved his life there, and thrived both academically and in sport. A girls' school specialising in commercial subjects, was evacuated to the area close to Hever. My father asked the headmistress if my sister and I could join the school to which she agreed, despite the multitude of problems that she was facing. We joined the girls to squash into the pews of Hever Church, and the small hall of the village school, to go on nature walks, to sit in a field, or to sit with a small group in the Lytch gate of the church. Eventually some of us were allowed to use the Women's Institute hut. Not surprisingly we didn't learn very much and a lot of the girls returned to London, preferring to be with their families and taking a chance on being bombed.

Coping

I was very aware of the enemy's relentless march across Europe occupying France, Belgium, Holland, Denmark and Norway. The Maginot Line which was supposed to keep the Germans out of France was neatly by-passed, and the British Expeditionary Force had to retreat to the beaches of Dunkirk to await rescue by the fleets of boats crossing the Channel. Our troops were bombed and machine-gunned as they huddled in the sand dunes and wading out to the ships.

I remember seeing the soldiers on the trains as they were ferried up the coast, many of them wounded. We waved to them and they waved back, clearly glad to be alive. With the Germans only 22 miles away on the French coast and with the enemy occupying most of Europe, the British Isles felt very vulnerable indeed.

My father went each weekday to his office close to Admiralty Arch in London having to walk the long distance to and from Hever Station, for the train to Victoria. Early in 1940, his boss was granted a peerage becoming Lord A of Hever and my father was made his personal and financial secretary. My mother was slowly mastering the art of cooking on a kitchen range, coping with carrying the shopping home as well as coping with the rationing of food and clothing.

Shooting at the swimming pool

Towards the end of the 1940 summer holidays, as a special treat, my parents took us to a proper swimming pool. My father had saved enough petrol to drive us there. As most pools in those days, it was rectangular, surrounded by a tiled walkway and lawns where spectators could sit in deckchairs. On two sides were brick-built changing cubicles and where people left their belongings whilst swimming. The half-doors could only be locked from the inside but it never occurred to anyone that something might be stolen. With my parents comfortably settled in their deck chairs, we children joined in the general frolics in the pool.

I remember hearing a distant air-raid warning but no one paid any attention to it, and we continued our antics in the pool. Suddenly, we heard the roar of an aircraft that seemed to be flying rather low and the next instant it appeared over the nearby trees. Needless to say everyone looked up, and with a deafening roar the plane swept even lower over the pool. We realised that not only was it an enemy aircraft, we could clearly see the black and white crosses under the wings, but it was firing its guns at us. It banked and climbed away from us, the swimmers scrambled out of the pool and ran for the nearest cubicles and together with the spectators, we all huddled in the only available shelter. After a few minutes of listening and scanning the skies, as best we could from the cubicles, we decided that the aircraft was not coming back and returned to swimming, and sunbathing. However, we were hardly back in the pool or settled on the grass when the roar of the aircraft could be heard once again. No one waited for it to appear this time, adults pulled children out of the pool as everyone stampeded for the cubicles, reaching comparative safety as, for a second time, bullets from an enemy plane strafed the pool. Miraculously, no one was hurt. Not wishing to tempt fate again, my father told us all to get dressed and despite the fact that the "All Clear" had not sounded, he took us all to 'The Barn' for tea, a lofty, raftered building, close by the pool, which had been turned into a cafe. As tea for five was being put on the table I was aware of another ominous sound, the sustained rumble of a lot of heavy aircraft over head, flying toward London, and coming in waves. As soon as one lot passed out of hearing we heard another lot approaching, the continuous vibrations of their engines causing the rafters of the barn to tremble, sending down a fine deposit of black specks landing on the plates, in our cups, in the milk and all over our bread, butter and cakes. We picked, wiped and blew the specks away as best we could, determined not to miss our tea. I'm sure that all except the younger children realised that after Dunkirk, this was the start of the Germans' next offensive against us.

On the way back home, my father stopped the car at the top of a hill from where, on a clear day, you could see right across to London. With enemy aircraft still passing overhead, some of which we could see, through the hazy cloud, despite their height, we looked in dismay and horror at the great pall of black smoke, punctuated by huge fires, rising from the docks along the Thames. I thought of their precious contents going up in smoke and human lives being lost and homes destroyed. Our return home was a very sombre little family driving the rest of the way.

The bombing of London continued night and day as did the bombing of other major cities. There was hardly ever an "All Clear" to give us a little respite. It often happened that enemy bombers that could not get through to the city, turned for home before they could drop their bombs on their designated targets. As they headed south, in order to lighten the aircraft, their bombs were jettisoned across the countryside and we were right beneath their shortest route home! Our house frequently shook and shuddered from the crunching explosions of these strings of bombs.

Parts of our defences against the might of the German air force were the squadrons of R.A.F. fighter planes Spitfires and Hurricanes. The start of school was postponed because of the air-raids, so I had time to stand on the lawn at the back of our house watching the dog-fights taking place in the clear September skies, not realising at the time I was witnessing what came to be known as the Battle of Britain. I could see the planes wheeling and diving, always able to recognise which were the British by their shape. When a plane was badly hit by the guns of another, a plume of black smoke and flames spurted from the tail as it dived and spiralled earthward. I prayed as I anxiously watched, that an airman, British or German, would emerge from the aircraft, his fall slowed by the ballooning parachute. Many times I thought the airmen would land in the field on the other side of the river at the back of our house but the breeze always carried them away. Often I saw the result of the planes when they hit the ground the thud, the explosion, the smoke and flames. Fortunately, no reports were ever received of the crashing planes hitting a property.

Earlier, I told you that my young brother had gone as a full boarder to the Prep School in East Grinstead, which was not very far away. On Sunday afternoons the boys were allowed a visit from their families who, more often than not would take them out to a cafe in the town for tea. My father managed to save enough petrol from his meagre ration to drive us to visit my brother once a month. I remember my first visit very well in the Autumn of 1940, for unexpectedly, also out and about in the town were servicemen in 'hospital blue', a bright blue cotton jacket and trousers, a white shirt and a red tie. When going out they wore the hat and greatcoat of whichever service they were in. They were patients being treated at the nearby hospital, which specialised in constructive plastic surgery. The team of doctors was led by the pioneering surgeon in this new field of medicine, Archie McIndoe, (later knighted). Most of the patients in the town were in the R.A.F. and not knowing about the proximity of the hospital and what it specialised in, was a great shock to us to see for the first time men whose faces and hands, and who knows what other parts of their bodies, had been terribly burned. We knew that we must not stare but I realised that deliberately looking away was equally just as hurtful. On subsequent visits to see my brother, we were more prepared to see the men whose faces had been so damaged and that the people of East Grinstead treated these patients normally. We took our cue from them. I shall never forget those servicemen, the sacrifice that they made, the pain and suffering they had endured and the deformities that would remain with them for the rest of their lives.

At this time the military became active around our house. A blockhouse used as a gun-emplacement was built on the riverbank not far from our back lawn, the side of the hump-backed bridge facing the blockhouse was removed and replaced with a rickety contraption of stakes held together by wire. Soldiers were billeted in the stable-block.
One evening the young army officer in charge of the gun-emplacement came to tell my father that if the invasion came our house would have to be dynamited to give a clear view of the bridge and the lane so that the gun could fire accurately at enemy vehicles.

Part Two

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