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Born in 1933 the proximity of Elsham aerodrome added interest to my lonely childhood on a farm two miles from Elsham and Barnetby villagaes. A searchlight base sat in-between, precluding the need for candles and the roadside military hospital, promoted a nursing ambition.
Wellington and later Lancasters bombers, stood in circular spots along my school route and it was a common sight to see bombs being transferred from trailers to hatches. The lads crawling the fuselage brightened my lonely way with a cheery shout and wave. Another painted girl on the nose fuselage meant success, an empty space where a plane should be, a loss.
Shot rabbits, hares, pheasant and partridge, an annual pig, Mum’s hens and geese and Daisy supplying milk, cream and butter, filled the larder.
Mum took me into Grimsby with ‘goodies’ for less fortunate relatives. Granddad swapped ‘goodies’ for sweet coupons and from relatives I heard tales of queuing for tiny portions of meat or foods I took for granted. Aunty made a rare sponge cake with butter and eggs Mum supplied.
Folk were encouraged to take airmen into their homes and five visited ours on Sundays. They brought tins of fruit for cream trifle followed by Mum’s cake. We had a sing-song round the piano before playing and cheating at the Sorry game.
Dad collected relatives from Barnetby station with tractor and trailer. Us children, lay on top of straw watching a platoon of handsome young airmen, marching to the station for embarkation.