大象传媒

In 1941, my father, a grammar school mathematics teacher, joined the RAF to become a navigation instructor. After training, he was posted to No. 13 Initial Training Wing in Torquay. The family - my mother, younger brother Roger and myself - joined him, and in 1942 we found accommodation with another ex-teacher and his wife and daughter in a rented house in Avenue Road, Torquay. I was aged 10 and Roger was 5.

Since 1941, Torquay had suffered from a series of bombing attacks, commonly called 'tip and run' raids. A small number of German fighter-bombers would come in low over the sea, strafe the town with machine-gun or cannon fire, drop a few bombs, and then race for France hoping to avoid interception by the RAF. Because of the low flying tactics, there was usually very little notice of an attack. Despite these sudden attacks, life in Torquay continued with remarkable normality. Children played on the beach, adults strolled on the promenade, shops were open and cinemas were well frequented. In our case, with two families sharing, it was possible for one or other set of parents to go out in the evening, leaving the other in charge.

On one particular evening in late summer 1942, my parents had taken advantage of this arrangement to go to the cinema. It was a lovely evening, Roger had not yet gone to bed, and he and I were playing with a golf ball and putter in the front garden. Suddenly the sirens began to sound, followed almost at once by a crackle of machine-gun fire. As we had no air-raid shelter, Roger and I rushed into the house and dived under the dining-table in our living room - where our fmily had taken cover on a previous raid. After a few seconds, however, we were called to join the other family in a small enclosed space under the head of the stairs. By now ther noise of the raid was growing rapidly louder. There was no artificial lighting in the space where we were standing, but the door into the hall was ajar giving a little light. Suddenly the door was pulled shut. Into the ensuing blackness came the most enormous burst of sound that I have ever experienced. There was a brief pause while we realised that we were unhurt, and then the door was pushed open. The floor was a mass of rubble, and the dust so thick that initially we could hardly see. My first thought was that the house had received a direct hit, but when we emerged we discovered that the bomb had landed a few houses away, and that although the ceilings had collapsed the house was still standing.

A few minute after the raid, I made my way back into our living room. Under the table where Roger and I had been crouching was a mass of splintered broken glass. The main window had been blown in by the blast. Had we remained there, as we would have done if our parents had been present, we would have been dreadfully cut by the flying glass. Later on, we also made the alarming discovery that the chimney-stack had partly collapsed, showering rubble onto Roger's bed.

Our parents returned home from the cinema with worry increasing at every step, as they realised how close the bomb had come. In fact, but for their fortunate choice of film night the outcome for the family could have been a great deal worse.

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