大象传媒

I was born in 1937 and lived in Letchworth, North Hertfordshire, with my parents; so much of what I remember is the view of a very young child.

We had a number of evacuees, one at a time, billeted on us. I remember two of them. One was the younger of two sisters and a couple of years older than me. I did not understand how worried they were about their father who had stayed behind in Bexhill. After the war they invited us to stay with them for a few days over Christmas but we lost track of them as all our lives changed.

The other evacuee was a teacher at the Norton Church School and would come in after I had gone to bed and leave early in the morning so I did not know her well. I remember that in a school raffle she won a Hornby gauge 0 "Flying Scotsman" locomotive, tender and a few bits and pieces which she gave to me! Toys like that were unobtainable and very desirable. Three of us among about eight boys and girls who lived close enough to play together spent many hours with them.

Food rationing was strict and each ration book holder was registered with a specific supplier. We kept hens and some people were registered with us. We could not obtain eggs from anyone else and our "customers" were prevented from registering elsewhere so that they did not get a double helping. We were registered with a big grocery store and I remember that a man came round to take my mother`s orders which were usually delivered a couple of days later. He would take the order and tell us how many coupons were required for our allowance of butter and cheese and if there were any "special offers", these were few and far between. My mother would decide whether it was better to buy some oranges and use precious sugar to make marmalade, or buy the marmalade and save the sugar for making jams from our own fruit.

I went to Norton Road School, not the school in the village. It was overfilled with evacuees and I succumbed to all the diseases imaginable. I was so often ill with childhood illnesses that the school attendance officer called one day; saw me in the throes of measles (for the second time) and was most sympathetic but departed in haste.

Nearby Henlow airfield was a research station. Sometimes we saw aircraft flying with odd bulges on wing or fuselage, or performing odd manoeuvres in company with other aircraft. Although Bedfordshire is mostly flat there is a sharp rise where Bedfordshire meets Hertfordshire. Everyone learned the sounds and shapes of aircraft and it was a matter of pride to be the first to identify friend from foe. My father was an ARP warden. Their post was at Sly Corner, just a few minutes away on a bicycle.

My bedroom window faced west, roughly in the direction of Henlow and one evening there was a splendid sunset. My mother opened my window and I said "listen, there`s a twin-engined German plane coming towards us from Henlow". My mother heard something but not enough to identify what it might be. I insisted but the air raid siren was silent. Finally my father said he trusted me and would go to the ARP post. The plane came nearer and the engine note changed as the pilot suddenly saw the rising ground and struggled to gain height. The plane seemed enormous and about to brush our roof but it swerved a little with a noisy acceleration to avoid the Weston Hills. We thought it likely that this was a reconnaissance or photographic aircraft without fighter escort.

Later we were told that this plane had crashed in Essex but knew no details. My father had arrived at the post just as the plane went over a little way away. The siren then sounded and he was praised for his promptness. He told his colleagues that I had heard it and he had believed me.

Something similar happened later. Both my father and I came home for our main meal at lunchtime; it was a lovely summer day and the back door was open. Suddenly we heard a four-engined German bomber being chased from Henlow by two fighters. The pilot must have had a shock when he saw the scarp before him and tried desperately to climb, just missing our house. The fighters fired at the bomber as he went towards Baldock and the pilot jettisoned some bonbs which fell near a band of trees as he tried to gain height but he crashed in a field. For years there were hollows where the bombs fell and the plane had exploded.

Although people were not encouraged to take holidays, my parents decided that we would go to Trebarwith. I remember the railway compartment and the beach but nothing about where we stayed although it was very near the sea. The journey home had to be made through London; probably quite dangerous. We were able to find a taxi to take us to King`s Cross and I rememger being puzzled by the sun setting in the west but a brighter glow in the east; it was the London docks burning. The taxi could not drive all the way to King`s Cross so he was paid and we hurried along with my father in the lead carrying two big cases and my mother with a smaller case and her handbag in one hand and holding my hand with the other. They were both urging me to hurry up although I was running to keep up with them.

Arriving at King`s Cross we found a train ready to leave, it pulled out - then stopped for what seemed like a night in the tunnel just outside the station. The smoke and steam smelt strongly and we wondered whether a bomb might fall and make it impossible to get out of the tunnel. A man in our compartment pulled a pear from his bag and began to peel it, then offered me a piece which I accepted with profuse thanks. My mother said afterwards that she and my father had been so dry they couldn`t even dribble!

Eventually the train moved off and we arrived home and found everything all right except that the grass was almost like hay and most of the fruit needed picking.

There were power cuts, of course, and in 1947 I remember going to confirmation classes in the evening. My prents gave me a candle, only to be lit by the priest who was teaching us. The church was very dark until some of our candles were lit; the effect is a lasting memory.

Jean Sanderson - December 2005

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