大象传媒

My memories of World War Two are not memories of historic events but are snippets of everyday life, seen through the eyes of a child.

I was born in a quiet and rather sad town that was Derry before 1939. In the 1930s unemployment was high, money was scarce and our sole industry, shirt making, employed mainly women, so that many men were forced to seek work in places like London and Manchester. Along the wide river the docks lay idle as mercantile trade focused on Belfast. Yet, despite the lean times, there was little crime and my siblings and I passed our early years in a safe and secure little world.

Then on 3rd September, 1939, our peaceful existence ended. War was declared. Grown ups greeted the announcement with horror and dismay, yet the news scarcely caused a ripple in my little circle of friends. We knew that wars were fought in far off lands, nothing to do with us in Derry. Everything would go on as usual 鈥� boring old school and homework 鈥� lightened only by weekends and holidays. Halloween was just round the corner and then Christmas. However, we were soon to be disillusioned as events unfolded that would change everything familiar and control life to a degree hither unknown.

To make our town invisible from the air a strict blackout was imposed at night. All street lamps were extinguished, making once familiar streets unknown territory, and the small hand torches we were allowed to carry gave only very limited help to people groping their way in the dark.. Each window was draped in black curtains so that not a chink of light escaped from within and air raid wardens patrolled everywhere to ensure that the law was obeyed. In factories, shops and offices members of staff took turns sleeping on the premises to deal with incendiary bombs. People were ordered to carry the ugly gas masks that were issued 鈥� but nobody I knew ever bothered! Everywhere large posters shouted their slogans, 鈥渉elp the war effort鈥�, 鈥渄ig for victory and, best of all, 鈥渨alls have ears鈥�.

Rationing of food and clothing was introduced. Unfortunately, the meagre supply of coupons each month had to cover bed linen and towels as well as clothes. Housewives used to buy flour bags from bakeries and, when bleached snowy white, were as good as linen sheets. Naturally, coupons were more precious than gold and there was a thriving black market. The normal allocation of coupons did not allow for that special occasion like a wedding that required something new to wear. As well, hand - me-downs for the young wouldn鈥檛 last forever.

Restrictions meant little to me or my friends until sweets were rationed. Then all was gloom and despondency. The few coupons each month wouldn鈥檛 go far in the wee shop round the corner. To have to choose between treacle toffee, brandy balls and such delights was indeed a problem and called for strict budgeting and much thought. In the first week we could 鈥榖low the lot鈥� but then we would suffer withdrawal symptoms for the following weeks. To add to our trials and tribulations, ice-cream ceased to exist, and bananas and dates were just a memory. At that time too, the owner of our local ice-cream shop, Jimmy Macari, disappeared overnight in rather mysterious circumstances. We learned later that, along with other Italians, he had been interned in a camp as an 鈥榰ndesirable alien鈥�.

With childish selfishness, we never considered the problems that food rationing inflicted on my mother: how to keep a growing family healthy on such meagre rations-2ozs. Sugar, 2ozs. Butter, 1oz. tea and a small portion of meat for each person per week. Instead of eggs, there was a yellow powder that was supposed to serve the same purpose. Sausages were not rationed but were scarce 鈥� Denny鈥檚 they were not! They were made from breadcrumbs and something else that remained a mystery. Perhaps it was just as well!

I have to confess that few citizens of Derry suffered the full rigours of food rationing. Our town is just a few miles from the border with the Irish republic, then a neutral country and with little food rationing. Villages, like Carrigans, a few miles away in Donegal, became venues for travellers foraging for supplies. Each night intrepid souls from our town would walk or cycle across the border, bypassing the customs posts, each man armed with a list of goods commissioned by family and neighbours. On their safe return, the contraband was duly distributed and the entrepreneurs suitably rewarded.

Smuggling became a local pastime and even the great and the good succumbed. No-one worth his salt would return empty handed from a trip to Buncrana or Moville. Their ill gotten gains would often include chocolate or sweets, a special treat for both adults and children. Housewives, in particular, became adept smugglers, my mother being one of them. Wartime restrictions seemed to release a lawless streak in her that she normally kept well hidden. Each Sunday she journeyed by bus to visit her aunt in Donegal. Aunt Agnes lived on a smallholding that produced potatoes, vegetables, gooseberries and apples. She also churned her own butter and reared hens.

From her weekly expedition mother would return home with the spoils that sometimes included a chicken if auntie was in a generous mood. I saw my mother鈥檚 talent for smuggling at first hand. On one occasion I accompanied her on her usual sortie. When we arrived at aunt鈥檚 cottage, news was exchanged and gifts offered and we sat down to a tea of frest soda bread and fancy cakes bought for the occasion. Tea over, we got down to business. The 鈥榞oodies鈥� were stashed in the deep pockets of mother鈥檚 loose coat and my pockets were stuffed with packets of sweets bought from the village shop. We then boarded the bus for home. At the customs post a stern looking official entered the bus and asked the passengers if they had anything to declare. Nobody said anything. However, this particular official seemed to have an awesome instinct for spotting wrong doers and some of our fellow passengers were forced to relinquish their cache. Even before he reached us, I was petrified in case we were found out and exposed as crooks. However, mother rose to the occasion and, with the aplomb of the hardened criminal, she smiled sweetly and declared nothing but her innocence. To my great relief and amazement the custom officer just nodded and allowed us to continue our journey.

At home, life continued more or less as usual until the air raids on Belfast brought the horrors of warfare almost to our doorstep. Fortunately, Derry escaped attack, except for one shocking incident when a lone bomber dropped its cargo on Messine鈥檚 Park, killing and maiming several people. I remember clearly that particular night when, as the sirens wailed, my brother, sister and I were roused from our beds and hustled down to the improvised shelter under the stairs. As we huddled together in the darkness giggling nervously, we heard the bomber passing overhead and mother prayed and drenched us with holy water. This was the nearest our town came to experiencing war at first hand though evidence of the conflict was all around us.

Because Derry was an important north Atlantic port, the river Foyle came into its own. The once silent docks reverberated to the hustle and bustle of the thousands of sailors who manned the plethora of warships and submarines berthed there. On the streets troops of every colour and nationality mingled with local people. Most of these strangers were just passing through, although some had a longer stay and were billeted in old deserted buildings. Watts鈥檚 distillery on William Street became home to a detachment of the RAF who guarded the huge silver barrage balloons that floated overhead. The invaders made little impression on my friends and me: they were simply 鈥榖irds of passage鈥� enroute to somewhere else. We still attended school, played rounders in our street, swapped books and comics and queued noisily for the Saturday matinee. Armed with sweets from the weekly ration, we watched John Wayne and Errol Flynn survive all sorts of hazards and dangers before beating the 鈥榖addies鈥�.

In contrast, the arrival of the Americans after Pearl harbour had a profound effect on the town and its people. They established permanent bases rather than temporary accommodation of the other combatants and 鈥榰ncle Sam鈥� housed his men in custom built camps, each a 鈥榣ittle America鈥�. Their prefabricated living quarters had under floor heating or so the story went and each camp had a hospital, pharmacy, recreation hall and canteen. Stores and equipment were brought in from the 鈥榮tates鈥� and, again if rumours were to be believed, there was an abundance of luxury items, sweets, candy bars, ice cream and thousands of tins of pineapple chunks!

How we envied those families who welcomed Americans into their homes! The visitors usually came laden with the largesse of their stores, and they even brought nylons for older sisters! These 鈥榠nvaders鈥� were smiling and self assured and some chewed gum and drawled exactly like our heroes in the cinema. They were patient and good humoured with the hordes of children who swarmed round them at every turn. The US contingent integrated easily into the local scene and several men from the town were employed in the hospital and pharmacy departments in the camps.

A number of Americans married Derry girls and these 鈥楪I brides鈥� were easily identified by their smart new outfits that, according to the local fashion gurus, must have come straight from new York. They were the envy of friends and acquaintances forced to 鈥榤ake do and mend鈥�. Because of wartime restrictions on clothes, there was the continual problem of 鈥榬ejuvenating鈥� garments well past their see by date. New outfits were few and far between and I can clearly remember my sister struggling to 鈥榯art鈥� up a dress that had seen better days. Few coupons could be spared for stockings and in summer girls would apply a tinted cream that gave the appearance of the real thing.

The topic of clothes dominated many conversations among 鈥榞rown ups鈥� and you can imagine how my sister and her friends drooled when they first caught sight of the American nurses stationed at the local camps. Some of these nurses attended our church on Sunday and they caused quite a flutter among the congregation, male and female. They were like film stars, sleek and immaculately groomed in their chic blue uniforms that were designed to flatter the most difficult figure-or so my sister said.

In 1945 the war ended and Derry鈥檚 image changed once again. The warships and submarines sailed away and once more the docks were silent and empty. The crowded streets returned to their pre war quiet and everyday life resumed as before. But for the city and its people things were never be the same.

By Renee McKimm

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