大象传媒

My mother wanted to do her bit working during the war, as thousands of women were being recruited to work in factories or where directed. She went to Goosepool Aerodrome (now Teesside Airport) where the Canadian Airforce was stationed for most of the war, flying heavy bombers. The aerodrome had been built from new, as many were in our area.

Mother's job was Dilutee Electrician in the WAAF's quarters. She did mundane jobs like changing light bulbs, repairing switches and running new cables and so on. She could often be found high in the hanger roofs on the tower ladders, fitting lights and helping the male electricians. Mum was a bit of a dare-devil, and often went where the males refused to go.

She went into work by train from Norton Railway station; there was a halt at the airport for them to reach work. One morning, as they slowed for the halt, a returning bomber, which had been badly shot up over Germany, was trying to make the end of the runway but failed and crashed onto the line, bursting into flames before the train could come to a stop. When it did finally stop, mother's carriage was positioned over the heart of the fire. The flames licked up the sides of the carriage, preventing the workers from jumping out. Luckily, the driver had seen what was happening and got the train moving again. Railway staff opened the doors and pulled the passengers clear of the burning carriage. They were all suffering smoke inhalation and scorching; mother's hair was quite frizzled. They went for a check-up and were given Sal Volatile (the wonder drug that you sniffed). Then they were told to have a cup of tea and go on with their work. That is the way things were then, you just got on with it.

My mother saw the bombers go out with men, knowing they might not return. She often watched the planes come back from raids shot to pieces with wounded or dead crew to be unloaded. Mother said she wished she could go with them at times, but it was each cog working at their own wheel that helped the war progress; they all did their bit in their own way.

She had one more narrow escape. While visiting my Aunt Lizzy, who was the housekeeper for Lord Craythorne in Craythorne village, the siren went but as they were in the country they did not think much of it. Mother went out to catch the bus and was standing at the stop when there was an almighty crash; she was lifted over a wall by the blast. A bomb or one of our own shells had hit the village, destroying some property. Dad, my sister and I were sitting at home and knew nothing of this until the front door flew open. The language in the passageway made Dad cover our ears and Mum came into the light looking as if the local dogs had mistaken her for a fox and chased her through the undergrowth. Her clothing was ripped, her hair was bedraggled and she looked a mess. We (who knew that Mum would not normally go out of the door without being properly groomed) did our usual thing of bursting into laughter, which did nothing to calm her down.

It was some time before we heard the full story and made her a cup of tea, the panacea of the times. We guessed by the language and temper that she was not too badly hurt, apart from scratches and grazes plus bruising to her ego after having to get home on two buses and hear the comments from other passengers. If a German airman had baled out and landed in our garden that night she would have killed him with her bare hands. That was my mother.

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