大象传媒

This is a reproduced account, slightly edited, of my aunt, Felicity Hibbs' wartime experience in London, written shortly after the events of October 1940. Sadly, Felicity is no longer alive, but the account is reproduced with permission of her sister, Mary Graves.

"One Sunday night in October 1940, when I was 14 years old, our neighbours Mr and Mrs Ames came round for the evening. The women did their knitting and the men, father and Mr Ames, played billiards on our half sized table - the sturdy build of it often making a temporary shelter as we dived below on the all too frequent whistle of some near miss, we settled down to the enjoyment of pleasant company.
With the noisiest attacks seemingly timed around ten pm, the earlier part of the evening was often a time to catch a couple of hours sleep, and so it was that night when, having said my 'good nights' to the neighbours excusing my rudeness, I dozed off alongside my mother on the settee.
When I next became conscious I was buried beneath the rubble of what had been no 42 Wordsworth Avenue, and buried so effectively that it felt like a complete plaster cast. My mother's reassuring "don't worry Felicity, they will get us out" not doing much for my morale, my immediate reaction to cry for help, then the realization that I might be suffocating caused me to still my cries momentarily while I took stock of the situation. Unable to move even a finger or blink with the solid weight of masses of rubble neatly encasing my body, I strained with every muscle to no avail. Not even a brick shifted as my panic grew. The numbness creeping into each limb at first made me think of broken bones, then later the inability to feel the slightest sensation caused the panic thought of the loss of one or two or even all my limbs. By now I was aware of a cool patch on my cheek and air lightly brushing one side of my face - thank heavans I could breathe and once again I called for help.

In the distance I began to hear voices - help must now be on its way. But the minutes ticked away and the awful helplessness pervaded my mind. My mother's cries had long since ceased. Then quite suddently, with no more warning than the slight tremor of approach, footsteps quite slowly and deliberately walked over me. As each foot fell I shouted with every ounce of strength now left to me - I must be heard. the ground that covered me had literally shaken with the weight of that nameless someone above me. If I could not be heard at such close range, what hope amidst all the debris of wreckage, was there of rescuers finding me. Unable to give any indication of movement, in due course my circulation would stop and I would die. The footsteps receeded and once again I was left alone. It was then that the full horror of the situation dawned.

The rescuers' voices came to me sometimes muffled, sometimes a clear word or two as they gradually worked their way towards the centre of the destructed area. Time passed - periodically I would make my plea "help" but with less conviction as the hours wore on. Then, quite unbelievably, I heard loud and clear "Sounds as if there's someone over there". Then the wonderful blessed voice now above me - "Don't worry, we'll soon get you out", and painstakinly the buckets were filled with the rubble and rubbish that had once been our home, and carefully removed to clear the area. A small trickle of dust descended my breathing channel and filled my mouth - "You're blocking my breathing hole" I called. A voice said "She's trying to say something". I tried again, but they couldn't hear, and unaware how distinctly I could hear them, they said again "We'll soon have you out", adding "Can't hear what she said, can you". Panic again as more dust began filtering down, so again I shouted and finally they understood, but then the difficulty arose of locating my face. Now the load was lifting and at long last my head was freed - the air tasting like mountain air. Unable to see, my eyes packed tight with dust and sweat, I was horrified when they placed a duster over my face 'to stop me breathing in more dust' - "please take it away" I said and as I heard the men singing at their work I joined in - no doubt out of tune, but thankful to use my lungs and know I would soon be freed.

As they cleared my shoulders a doctor gave me morphine injections, while they sawed at rafters that, together with the rubble, pinned my legs. Then some hours after the rude awakening from my sleep I was gently lifted from my 'grave' and taken by ambulance to the local hospital.

The results of my experience? Not a broken bone, in fact, nothing more serious than a few dozen glass splinters which, although they gave me a gory appearance, were quite harmless. My hair matted with cement, twigs and rubbish became almost the despiar of the patient VADs detailed to try and comb it, a job that took almost the 10 days I spent in hospital recovering from my experience, and the shock of learning that of the 5 people in that room, I had been the only survivor".

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