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This is my Father's story of the war.

In 1944 I was eleven years old and lived with my mother, father and two brothers at 110 Carlton Road, Erith. One brother was fourteen, the other, five years old.

The house was situated on high ground with numerous steps leading up to the front door. Opposite, over the road, was a rose garden extending from Brook Street to an area which was overgrown with trees and bushes, known by locals as ‘the swamp’, due to the ponding of rainwater and underground springs. This and the rose garden have now been developed with bungalows. On the corner of Carlton Road and Colindale Avenue were, and still are, a pair of houses, one of which had to be rebuilt after the events of July 13th.

Saturday 13th was a normal day; doodlebugs had been falling locally for the past month. We could easily recognise their engine noise and were aware that when it stopped it would crash. The sirens had sounded and although we had an air raid shelter in the back garden, like many others we had become blasé and did not use it on all occasions. On this particular day four of us were sitting down to tea, my younger brother, suffering a migraine, being asleep on the sofa in the front room. As I remember we were having fried eggs, still a rare treat. Not willing to give up our meal we remained at the table. Barely had we commenced when the ominous chug of a doodlebug, sounding very close, interrupted us.

Mother casually said to my father, ‘Pete, go to the front door and see where it is’. Father, closely followed by my elder brother and myself, rose went into the hall where he chose to turn left through the kitchen to the back door, an action which probably saved all our lives. At that moment the bugs engine cut out and with a shout of, ‘It’s stopped, get down,’ he threw himself to the floor taking us with him.

I still believe I heard the explosion and the crashing of glass and other debris. Despite the closeness of the bomb, silence followed, which seemed at the time unnatural.

We rose covered in white plaster, broken glass underfoot, plasterboard hanging from the ceiling, broken timbers and a gaping hole where the front door had once been.

Mother appeared carrying our younger brother and neighbours arrived at the rear of the house. I remember one in particular, a Mrs Valace who lived further toward Brook Street. She said,’ Come to my house, it’s alright’.

We moved up the rear of the houses to Mrs Valace’s which, although structurally intact had the windows blown out. I was sat in an arm chair and despite my efforts to rise was forced to remain by the adults, they did not realise the seat was full of broken glass.

There were no tears or wailing, although by now I was aware that my brother was bleeding from the ear, mother had suffered numerous wounds and I was bleeding from the face. Father had a minor scratch to the nose and younger brother was unharmed.

Ambulances and other services had now arrived which conveyed us to the Casualty Department of Erith Cottage Hospital, now the X-Ray Unit. Here in this underground ward every bed appeared to be occupied Doctors, Nurses and First aiders moving from bed to bed cleaning and stitching, clearing the beds as swiftly as possible to accommodate the incoming wounded.

Having been stitched up, I left the bed and lost contact with my family. I wandered down the middle of the ward looking for a familiar face. I recognised my elder brother who was being stitched and from the noise he was making he was obviously in considerable pain.

I particularly remember as I walked down the ward a lady came from the opposite direction and commented, ‘Listen to that poor boy’.

I replied,’ That’s my brother’. I later concluded that she was in shock.

My father reappeared and we were taken to relatives in Riverdale Road.

Over the next days — weeks- details, which I was not witness to, were to unfold.

Mother, when we had gone to the kitchen door had gone into the front room where younger brother was sleeping. She related that, as she opened the door, it came off in her hand and fell across the two ends of the sofa, protecting brother from falling and flying debris. He slept on. Mother meanwhile had taken the force of the blast with glass and timber from the front window. The result of this was that she suffered seventeen lacerations, some very serious. This was why she had been taken to a different part of the hospital where she remained for some weeks.

Despite her injuries she gathered up younger brother, took him with us to the neighbour’s house. Father meanwhile, having seen us to the hospital, had taken younger brother to Riverdale Road, returned with uncles and cousins, left them to secure the property, then came back to the hospital to find us.

The consequence of that day on me was an uncontrollable shaking when ever an aircraft passed over, even when I could see it as one of our own. This eased gradually over time and by serving National Service in the RAF was virtually eliminated. I was told that the doodle bug had passed over the house from the front, circled back and landed in the swamp opposite.

Had father not gone to the back door instead of the front, if the bomb had landed on the road and not in our little swamp, the outcome could have been entirely different.