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PEOPLES’ WAR
September 1940. Schools were still closed so I started work in an office in the shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral, travelling by train from Lee in south east London. I was just 14 years old and not happy at losing my education. At the end of my first week Saturday 7 September we watched as the droves of bombers headed to destroy the docks in north Woolwich and surrounding areas where our relatives lived. Saw the sky turn black with smoke and gun bursts as the bombs screamed down and then blood red as night came. The waves of bombers continued into the night.

It was the start of the blitz, that night and for a long time afterwards the 6 of us slept in the Anderson shelter in the garden. My father was a Water Board official for the area and was called out to turn off the broken water mains and hopefully find another supply almost every night, even when off duty then back to work again next morning.

Each following working day by many detours I managed to get to my office in the City; we had fire watchers on the roof during daylight raids, when the red alert sounded we would gather our coats, also books and invoices to go to the basement shelter where we would work until the all clear sounded. Many times work colleagues would fail to arrive at work having died in the night raids.

Leaving at 5pm and hoping to get home before the sirens sounded, my 3 younger brothers were already in the shelter, all of us taking clothes etc. in case the house went in the night. As the nights drew in ‘Hitler’ usually came around 6pm and we just made it to the shelter and dinner in time. My father and I would get changed (he stayed half dressed to be ready for a call out). Sometimes dodging the shrapnel my mother would bring down the evening meal – usually a stew type meal that we would eat, then talk and try to sleep. We had a cat called Mickey who would sometimes singe his fur on a candle made an awful smell, he would curl up on one of the boys and sleep also, we tried to read but the light wasn’t very good for that.

There was a rail cutting at the bottom of the garden, during the raids an engine carrying and firing an anti aircraft gun would travel along it joining the other guns placed around the area including Blackheath, the boys would collect the shrapnel the next day. Somehow we would drop off to sleep with guns firing, planes droning and bombs screaming down, we felt so safe and secure in our wonderful Anderson shelter.

One night in November the shelter almost jumped out of the ground, we could hear glass breaking and slates falling, the blast was like nothing we had before we were sure that the house had gone. A land mine had fallen around the bend of our long road it was said that of the 1000 new houses on the estate, only 21 remained undamaged a whole turning was a mass of rubble.

Our roof was slate-less, and windows blown in. The blackout curtains were up the chimney (luckily the fire which was banked up with dust, peelings and tealeaves had not burned through). All of the upstairs plaster had gone and dangling electric wires made it too dangerous to go upstairs for a long time. A tarpaulin was placed over the roof, windows boarded with compressed cardboard, upstairs a no- go area until a lull in the raids when workmen came from other parts to repair them. It was a cold winter but we were alive, we still had our shelter in which to sleep and a battered kitchen.

We lived that way for months and somehow my mother managed to give us our usual Christmas, rationing was biting it was not easy; she worked wonders with our rations and queued for hours for anything off ration, yet was a tiny frail lady.

Christmas was over and peace once again forgotten, 29 December night was to be the second great fire of London (not counting Boudiccan). The City was the main target and was well alight, water was short the firemen made for the Thames, its water was low as the tide was out and hoses not really long enough, St Paul’s was hit by firebombs but quickly put out. Poor London.

Next morning the workers’ returned after Christmas and it’s peaceful quiet break. I had left home earlier and walking from Cannon Street station, scrambled over ruins of buildings to get to Knightrider Street, once there most had gone I climbed over rubble and hosepipes, clouds of brick dust and smoldering ruins, gaps where buildings had been a few days before.

I reached my office, it had been an old building and the rat catchers usually met you, with the vermin by tails and a bucket containing sickly smelling bait. Today there were exhausted grime and smoke stained firemen, still playing hoses to damp down. My office was open to the sky, the winding iron staircase in the middle was twisted and charred, and rubble was everywhere making it difficult to walk.

Less than 4 short months had passed since my 14th birthday, I’d lost my education, most of my new house, had slept underground for that time, travelled in the blitz and now my office had gone. Had my job gone also?