大象传媒

June the 6th 1944 (will I ever forget it) was a cold day with low, scudding cloud, not at all summery, but never had we seen such air activity. So many aircraft flying low, all with large black-and-white stripes under the wings. These were "invasion stripes" so that trigger-happy AA crews would know they were "ours". We aircraft enthusiasts had no need to be told that this was D-Day at last. The classroom we were in, (in the main building for once) had a cupboard containing the only wireless in the school (no small portables then). A master came in, opened the cupboard, turned on the set just in time for what we would now call a "news up-date" and we listened with enormous excitement to the famous announcement; "This morning Allied naval forces, accompanied by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies on the coast of France".

Another point, often forgotten, is that before the war the 大象传媒 broadcast the National Programme, roughly equivalent to the present Radios 3 and 4, and the Regional Programme a bit like a cross between Radios 2 and 4, but varying from region to region. There were no FM broadcasts; that technology was in its infancy. It was thought that enemy aircraft could use the various transmitters as navigation aids, so, to make this harder, on the outbreak of war all stations carried the same Home Service programme so there would be no way for an aircraft to know which transmitter was which.

After a while there were complaints of monotony and lack of choice so the "Forces" programme was introduced, carrying the lighter, more entertaining programmes. After the war, this became the Light Programme and, eventually, Radio 2.

The invasion of Europe brought much euphoria, but this soon received a very nasty dent. Not many days later we had a night raid warning. It did not seem to be a big raid but it was very unusual because we saw a couple of odd objects which I took to be radio-controlled Hs293 glider bombs, and confidently assumed that they would disappear when the parent aircraft went home at daybreak. This was the night of the 12th-13th of June. The next night was quiet but on the 15th it was obvious that something new and serious was coming over. We are quite used to automatic devices now, but a pilotless aircraft seemed positively eerie then. It was so impersonal, but it did not stop my friend and I going out on our bicycles. We reasoned that there were plenty of air-raid shelters we could head for if things got too hot.

Being in the furniture business Dad had got a very solid mahogany table; the sort with an extra leaf which you fitted with a crank-handle. We reasoned that it would support quite a weight so we took to sleeping under it when the flying-bombs began in earnest. To give a bit more headroom Dad had fixed up some solid wood blocks to raise the table a bit. It was our version of the official "Morrison" indoor shelter. One morning we woke up feeling a bit draughty, only to notice that the French doors had swung open, although no glass was broken. This was one of many curious blast effects. A flying bomb had hit Bexleyheath trolleybus depot, about 600yds away, although we had heard nothing. Many buses were damaged or destroyed, but others were drafted in from north of the river. (The Bexleyheath trolleybus system was unusual; it was the only one not connected to any of the others). A number of buses were usable but had their windows blown out, so the front windows were replaced and the buses tidied up and put back in service.

Being summer it was no great hardship being on an almost-windowless bus, but I can still remember all those elbows resting on the glassless openings! Because flying bombs hit the ground at a fairly flat angle they did not usually make a very deep crater, but the blast damage was enormous, often resulting in a huge cloud of earth, brick- and plaster-dust. One morning I was just getting ready for school when we heard a loud rushing sound, quite unlike the usual loud two-stroke motocycle noise. I rushed out and saw a bomb coming down with its engine flaming yellow instead of the usual 'blowlamp' spurt. I shouted to the others and dived for cover. The bomb landed at the bottom of the gardens of Nursery Avenue, about a 录 mile away. I saw two panes of glass spinning out of the scullery window. Dust spurted out all round the kitchen window and along the gutters. We then found that the entire kitchen window, frame and all, had tilted back about 20 degrees but the glass hadn't broken.

Blast often seemed to produce suction effects as well as pressure. I remember once hearing a swishing noise, looked up and saw a bomb with its engine stopped. Normally the bomb was supposed to dive straight into the ground after a set distance but the sudden dive usually starved the engine so you knew to hit the deck when the engine stopped. This one must have run out of fuel and I wondered when it would stall and which way it would go. As it was right overhead this was of some interest. I selfishly "willed" it to carry on gliding; it eventually hit a field anyway. Another time a few of us were climbing a tree in Frank's Park, opposite the school, one dinner break when we heard a stray bomb coming - with no warning. The bomb went way past but we felt very naked up that tree! By this time, as bombs could come at any time, there was a system of local warnings to avoid too much disruption; obviously this hadn't worked.

One of my classmates had some connection with a farm beyond Dartford. We cycled over there to examine the remains of a flying bomb. I salvaged a small cylinder and slide valve. The piston-rod was bent. I kept this sort of thing, along with fragments of anti-aircraft shell (commonly but wrongly called "shrapnel") picked up off pavements; what became of my collection I do not know. What puzzled my friend and I was a large piece of tube. We tentatively thought, wrongly, that it might be part of the propulsion unit. We later discovered that it was the main wing spar.

While in North Africa brother Tom had a very lucky escape. An ammunition ship had caught fire in Algiers harbour. It was towed away from other ships with an Army Fire Service crew on board. Tom and a Major were on the bridge just deciding where to concentrate their efforts when the ship exploded. Tom was picked up unconscious from the water; the Major was never found. After convalescence Tom resumed duties in Britain, eventually becoming a Captain. To complete his story, the Army wanted him to stay on as a regular but this did not appeal; his wife had had enough of Married Quarters by then; and with a daughter (born 1943) as well. Tom then got a good job as Chief of the fire brigade at Central Ordnance Dept, Donnington, Shropshire, the largest brigade in the county. He found this very interesting as he got to test all the latest equipment, visiting Siebe Gorman, the breathing apparatus experts, and the like. He took up fishing and canary-breeding but his injury had slowed him down somewhat, even at 28. We are convinced that the severe shake-up he received contributed to his sudden fatal heart attack at 51 in 1968. He received a full military-style funeral with full honours.

The flying bombs led to us having no end-of-year exams in 1944; we spent some time in the school basements, which were really the locker-rooms. After a few weeks there were fewer bombs as the defences had been reorganized to shoot down more of them before reaching the heavily populated areas, but a do-it-yourself evacuation scheme was brought in. If you found somewhere safe to go, the Government would pay your fare, provided you did not return until they considered it safe.

I spent four weeks in Barton, outside Torquay, staying with the same aunt and uncle we had visited in Yorkshire the year before. The war did not touch us in Devon, except for rationing and the blackout, of course. Some beaches were now open and there was always a bus ride to Newton Abbot with its considerable railway interest (but it still had a light AA gun or two on the station). At nearby Brixham one could see motor torpedo boats being repaired and maintained. Torquay harbour had an RAF air-sea rescue boat, so there were plenty of signs of war, if no bombs.

By September the flying-bomb launching sites had been overrun although we did get the odd air-launched bomb now and again, but the return to school in September brought another nasty surprise. One sunny morning we heard a loud bang, apparently in the sky, followed by a distant explosion. We later realized that the first bang was the supersonic shock-wave of a V2 rocket, the second noise being the actual impact. Flying bombs may have seemed unnatural, but we had got rather used to them; to be hit without warning was an alarming idea. The only thing to do was to accept that "If you heard it, it had missed you鈥�. I remember my classmate John saying "We're in danger agin.鈥� (sic). A few V2 incidents stick firmly in my mind. One teatime Mum was just pouring the tea and nearly dropped the teapot when a V2 landed at the corner of Oaklands Road and the Broadway, which is why there is a car park there to this day. We had double doors between the living room and the front room; how they rattled!

Two of us used to cycle down to Gravesend every third week go over on the ferry and get invited into Tilbury East signal box for a couple of hours. The signalman had his own one-man shelter in the box, a conical steel affair with a domed top and a door. Someone had labelled it The Duck and Dodge Inn", There was a Bofors light AA gun just outside. The gun crew were overprovided with rations so there were some for the signalman, and sometimes us, too. We often worked the levers, bells and block instruments. Crossing on the ferry we saw ships passing, all with light AA guns, handing in their own barrage balloons to a tender which came alongside, or picking one up if on the way out. Many of them were the mass-produced 鈥淟iberty Ships".

On the way back one late afternoon we heard the now-familiar bang and distant rumble and saw a rising cloud, silhouetted against the other clouds with the setting sun behind them. Of course we wondered where the rocket had struck, but even fifteen-year olds were getting quite philosophical by then; "It couldn't happen to me". (I don't know where it. did land). Once, when working on the Christmas post in the school holidays I heard the sound of a rocket landing somewhere. A small boy who happened to be passing said "I didn't like that". I said "Nobody likes it".

Although most of our lessons were in the All Saints building we did not only use the main school for science, music and P.E. We were in a downstairs classroom one morning when a rocket landed and blew out, or rather sucked out some of the upstairs windows - I can see that glass falling past our classroom windows to this day! The art room, upstairs, had huge windows, but there was no protective bracing such as many shop windows had, nor any netting stuck to the windows as on buses and other public transport, so we were in some danger, but no more glass was broken.

A rocket destroyed the home of one of my schoolmates. Luckily everyone was out at the time. One casualty was a book I had lent him. I still have it, complete with slightly dented cover where a ceiling joist fell on it!

The mother of another of our "crowd" was not so lucky. A V2 injured her. seriously. She died just over a year later, after the war had ended. The Nursery Avenue flying-bomb mentioned earlier blinded another school-friend鈥檚 mother; she was the first person I ever saw with a guide dog.

In March we took our mock School Certificate exams, still commonly called "mock Matric, after the Matriculation exam for University entry. I remember us all noticing the memorable date, 12-3-45. We were in room lA the largest of the All Saints rooms. French dictation had to be interrupted to allow for the noise of passing buses on route 99, and they were noisy, accelerating away from the stop just outside. During one exam a V2 landed not far away in Lower Belvedere. Upper Belvedere, where we were, was on an ancient cliff, formed by the Thames. Because of this most of the blast missed us, but also because V2s struck almost vertically and very much faster than VI flying bombs so they penetrated the ground, throwing much of the blast upwards. We were gently showered with flakes of distemper, forerunner of emulsion paint, from the ceiling. No bother-we just blew it off our exam papers and carried on.

It is worth stressing that nobody kept telling us how hard-done-by we were, and what difficulties we were working under. Apart from lateness or absence caused by "enemy action" no excuses were expected or made.

By late spring 1945 it was evident that the European war was nearly over. Some people hoped the Russians would get to Berlin first in case we might be too gentle; other were not so sure. I remember my father stoutly maintaining that Stalin was "worse than Hitler". Was he so wrong?

At the beginning of May we heard about possible negotiations involving a Count Bernadette - I think he was a Swede. Eventually VE-Day was declared to be May the 8th, with two days public holiday. The evening before I was out on my bike vaguely wondering what would happen next. We looked forward to the end of course, but I suppose we had become what we now call "institutionalized"; we knew where we were and what to do, "Now what?"

Despite rationing celebrations of some sort were obviously in order. There had been no fireworks "for the duration" as the saying was, but some people managed to find some pre-war ones, rather stale by now, probably. Somebody put a rocket in the usual milk-bottle. It fizzed but did not lift off. As it was supposed to explode high in the air I suddenly reasoned that it must have quite a bang, so as to be heard from a distance, so I quickly decided not to be too close. It did the milk bottle no good at all, although no bits went flying.

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