大象传媒

One Boy鈥檚 war
War was declared on the 1st of September 1939. In December of that year I was seven. On the 26th of June 1940 my father and some of his work mates were building a pillbox, which is a concrete bunker, or gun emplacement. The dome top slipped out of the crane, killing my father I was told this by my mother. Later that day we went to grandmother鈥檚 house; granddad was shaving in the bathroom, which was down stairs just off the kitchen. He was crying softly as he shaved, it was the first time I had seen a grown man cry. My father was probably one of the first civilian鈥檚 killed building defences against the enemy.
This was the start of my WAR.
Some time after my father鈥檚 death, mother and I went to live at grandmother鈥檚 house. One day we were going to put some flowers on my father鈥檚 grave. My grandmother tried to dissuade us from going, as the sirens had sounded warning of an air raid early in the morning, but as this had happened quite often and no air raids had happened in our area before the all clear had sounded, which could take the rest of the day. We walked quickly through the Park. Just in case! Then in to the alley, which lead out on to the road that goes to the cemetery. Suddenly ack ack guns started up, Bang bang bang bang the guns sounded, the reports blending to a near continuous roar. On looking up we could see puffs of smoke as the shells exploded high in the sky. The guns suddenly stopped firing, and then we could hear our fighter planes their engines howling as they dived down and engaged the bombers- there was now a dogfight overhead!
By this time we were out of the park and on the road to the cemetery. A man passing by pushed my mother and I into the doorway of the house near by, to shelter from the battle. What I now know was he was trying to protect us from the shrapnel that would be falling during an air raid. This is why air raid wardens wore steel helmets, or tin hats as we called them. One of the spitfires was coming down, having been hit by gunfire, from an enemy aircraft. It crashed in the park two hundred yards behind the doorways of the house where we were sheltering.
The pilot must have been a very brave man probably injured and in pain in a burning aircraft. The aircraft seemed to lift at the last minute missing the house and crashing into the park. I can only conclude that in the last seconds of his life this brave man had aimed his doomed spitfire at the only bit of open green space he could find.

After the crash we walked home through the alley, between the houses and the park. Bits of rubble and wreckage were still burning and spread over a wide area from the crash; a part of the wreckage was in the old abandoned Brent laundry the park and the alley.
For me this was the start of the Battle of Britain.
Over the next weeks the war in the air continued. The Germans tried to smash our planes in the air, and our airfields on the ground, to stop us repairing them, they started bombing by night and day. One night we could hear the bombers they were very loud, granddad said the bombers were following the river and bombing the docks. We could hear the explosions and see the flashes. The glow in the sky from the burning buildings was very bright it lit up the whole horizon along the river, it was nearly as bright as day. The bombing continued night after night. We were now living in the air raid shelter every night, some time in the day as well. This was not as uncomfortable as you might think. Grandmother had made sleeping bags from old quilts and tacked flannelette sheets in them to keep us warm and snug. I still had to go to school but if the sirens sounded as we got there, we went home even at the school gate, we would go home. The school air raid shelter was cold dark and damp. We all used to run into the shelter to get the best seats, as most were hard and uncomfortable. One day a boy named Joe run into the shelter, and landed up to his ankles in very cold water. It had rained heavily in the night. Joe spent the rest of the day in old socks and ladies plimsolls. The boys all went with the girls to there school shelter for the rest of that day, we all thought that being with girls was good fun.
The war continued. One night about 10 or 11 o鈥檆lock we could hear the sound of aircraft, louder then we had ever heard them before, wave after wave came over. All of them heading for London. Then we could hear the explosions; it seemed that we could feel the ground move. The explosions, the flashes, the rumblings and the ground seeming to shake under our feet it went on all night. By this time the underground stations were being use as air raid shelters. No one got any sleep that night. Next morning when the Londoners came out of the underground stations and shelters, and saw the wasteland that had once been their beautiful and proud city. Even the most harden Londoner had tears in there eyes, not of fear, some of sorrow, but most of anger and the determination not to be beaten. One old man was found wondering about aimlessly muttering that he could not find it. His house and the rest of the street had been reduce to rubble. For this was the morning after the night of 500-bomber plane air raid on London.
Though there were many more air raids, through the weeks, month鈥檚 years of the rest of the war, nothing made such a lasting impression as that night raid on London did to an 8-year-old. It sounded like the end of the world. 鈥淧erhaps it was鈥� the end of the world as we knew it then.
The klaxon
Some time in the late part of 1943 we notice a black object on top of some the lampposts. This was the klaxon.
A warning devise that warned of local and imminent danger.
Like the first notes of a Wagnerian Opera it introduced the V1 Hitler鈥檚 vengeance weapon. The klaxon, which to me sounded like the braying of a mad mechanical donkey. Whatever any one thought it sounded like, its message was very clear. 鈥淟ook out鈥� some thing bad comes this way. The V1 was built to instil fear into the British people. I take my hat off to whoever, it was who called it the 鈥渄oodlebug,鈥� this name reduced this deadly weapon to a bit of a joke, though no joke. It robbed it of its mantel of fear. Especially after our spitfire鈥檚 anti-aircraft gunfire and barrage balloons had finished with them, their numbers were reduced from 9.250 doodlbugs to only 2.000 that actually reached their targets. The rest forever adding to the growing pile of junk called, the German war effort, that littered fields and gardens of Britain. It was a very good thing that they were not launched till the 13th June 1944, just a few days after the D-day landings. In September 1944 the First V2 was launched. These were a totally different proposition it carried 2.000 lbs. of explosives,
It took only 4 seconds at 3500 mph to reach its target. They were deadly and there was no defence against them. Over 1000 were launched, only 500 (50%) hit their target. Next the V3 the rocket firing cannon that could fire 300 projectiles an hour at speeds of 1500 metres a seconds from the French coast to London. This was Hitler鈥檚 last hope.鈥�
Too late, thank God.鈥� Though this was not the end it was the beginning of the end. I can only feel privileged as a schoolboy to have been part of a race of people who lived, in these British Isles, from the 1st of September 1939 to the 8th May 1945 who opposed the might of the German army and won free.
I thought this is the end of my war?

The date the 2ndof December 1951 Five days before my 19-Birthday, that鈥檚 the day my Regiment landed at the port of Pusan in South Korea.

This time it really was my war.

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