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As a 7 year old resident in the Clogher Valley area of South Tyrone, my initial memories of the Second World War would be that of the blackout, followed by the issue of Ration Books and Gas Masks — I particularly remember the Gas Masks because I was so annoyed that mine was a horrible black one, whereas younger children were issued with lovely red ones!

Whenever the actual rationing was enforced, my mother, perversely, seemed to be in her element as she scraped-on the butter, measured-out the sugar/golden syrup in 1/2 teaspoonfuls and mixed-up the horrible dried egg etc. Brother, 8 years my senior, still maintains that Mum never got over the war years as she continued to scrape-on the butter to the end of her days, some 40 years hence! On her more benevolent side, as a member of the Womens’ Voluntary Service, she spent hours knitting socks and pullovers for the troops by the light of an Aladdin Lamp, the Northern Ireland Electricity Board not having reached South Tyrone until post-war. Needless to say, as a result of this she claimed that such effort 'ruined her eyesight’

To help offset the ravages of rationing, my brother and his friend cycled some 25 miles to Monaghan each Saturday, returning with what they could, surreptitiously, carry in groceries, nylons (Bear Brand), and, best of all, chocolate for little me! Domestic smuggling was rife in our area where, on a regular basis, ‘slim’ housewives cycled the 4 miles to the nearest ‘border’ shop, returning rather ‘plump’. The local constabulary occasionally took great delight in wagging them down and insisting that they dismount their bicycles just to see the sugar, half-melted butter, etc, falling from their underclothing!!

During the war years my father who, incidentally in his youth, had been at the Somme, was employed as a Cost Clerk with the Belfast firm of surveyors which over-saw the building of the 3 Co. Fermanagh wartime airports — St Angelo, Castle Archdale and Killadeas. He acquired lodgings at Trory Cross, adjacent to Saint Angelo, and this is where I was fortunate in that, as a 9 year old, I gained my most vivid memory, of the period. Next to father’s digs was , and still is, a church on a hill, and, whilst he was at work, I spent most of my time in the church grounds witnessing the wonderful Sunderland Flying Boats landing and taking off from Lower Lough Erne. What a magnificent sight — each looking just like a big bird. My fascination for air travel stems from there and is with me to this day.

Back to Tyrone, where the arrival of the American soldiers to our rather rural area was nothing short of a revelation Whenever walking to and from school each day, we, pupils, hoped that a ‘convoy’ would come past as they always threw us lovely red apples, chewing/bubble gum etc. They were exceptionally generous and I often regret that I hadn’t been 10 years older as I may well have benefitted frorn their extreme generosity which manifested itself months later through the local ladies — both married and single!! Joke!

Years later, when, as a Civil Servant, I was transferred to Belfast, I found that it wasn’t only the rural ladies who had an enjoyable time during the war. The elderly lady in whose department I worked wouid say to us younger-fry: ‘You girls haven’t lived. We, in the city, had ‘a ball’ during the war, thanks mainly to the black-out and the insurgence of servicemen. Visualize us making our way in the dark to such as University Square, where, manned with torches. we went along, houses until we reached the particular No. where the party was, and where, thanks to the curfew, we had to remain all night! Not only that, but there were wonderful shows and dances laid-on for the troops to which we were invited’.

Such was the irony of the Second World War in that, whereas my old boss had, as she claimed, ‘a ball’, and I, as a youngster, had the wonders of aviation opened up to me, thousands of Belfast citizens suffered abominably, particularly manifested when, as a result of the Belfast blitz — Easter raid — some 900 people were killed and 400 seriously injured - no other city, except London had lost so many lives in any one raid.

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