High Explosive Bomb at Topsham Road

Mark arrived in England with his grandmother in November 1942 to join his parents who were living in Balham. His father, Witold Krymer, was a good linguist, had taught himself English, and, after a stint at the Patriotic School in Victoria, was working for MI6 while Mark's mother was completing her degree in Polish Law at Oxford University (a special arrangement). Later she worked for the Polish government in exile in London.

Although they had all left Poland in September 1939, Mark had not seen his parents for two years and at six years old he did not remember them. He had also forgotten Polish, and only spoke French.

No stranger to war

Living in London was obviously very dangerous, and Mark recalls well the various bombing campaigns. His mother always refused to go to air raid shelters. One house, which they had lived in, was subsequently bombed, so she was lucky not to be there at that time.

Mark was no stranger to war - he remembered the German bombers coming over Warsaw on 1 September 1939, even though he was only three - it was to change his life.

Paris and Warsaw babyhood

Mark had been born in 1936 in Paris to Polish parents studying there and they returned home to Warsaw, where Mark remembered his swing attached to the door-frame in the flat where they lived (the flat survived in bombed out Warsaw).

Once it was clear that the Germans had overwhelmed the Polish forces with their bombing and tanks, Witold Krymer (with Protestant-Jewish parentage) was keen to leave before the Germans arrived in the city. He managed to get his family into Lithuania (agreeing to take a couple of generals' wives so he could obtain petrol for the car).

Journey to safety

The family embarked on a fraught trek through the Baltic states to reach France. The most immediate problem was money to pay for living expenses and border guides. The Russians controlled the Baltic states, and a Russian officer in a cafe took pity on the little boy, ordering some food. Maybe he was missing a son back home.

Witold Krymer managed to obtain some cash by trading watches - desperate measures born of a desperate situation - and with considerable difficulty and danger the family made it through to Estonia and caught the last boat out to Sweden. They had planned to go to the USA, but Mark fell ill and, thinking it was scarlet fever, his father decided to join family members already living in France in 1940. That could have been a dreadful mistake.

Alerted to the German invasion of France, the parents made a dash for England, leaving Mark behind in the care of his grandmother. Mark's father, having joined the Polish forces in England, was eventually able to get Mark and his grandmother to England, via Spain and Portugal when the Germans occupied the Vichy area and it became very dangerous for refugees to remain in France.

Now in England and back to school

A few months after Mark's arrival, his mother was about to give birth to another baby, and his father asked a policeman to stay and look after Mark in the family home while he took his wife to hospital.

Mark first attended a French-speaking school, and then a Catholic school, where he felt rather isolated as a Protestant. After attending another local school, Mark went to a boarding school in Devon, where he remembers seeing the excercises for the D-day landings on the north Devon coast. Like most little boys are the time, he took great interest in the more evident aspects of the war, knowing about the different types of bombs and planes.

Home from school, Mark recalled the excitement of VE Day in London. With the momentous changes in his Polish home, his future life was to be in England and he became a British citizen in 1948.

As I was only 3 years old when WW2 began, I have no memories of before the war. In about 1943 I was given a banana by a soldier on
leave from Africa, but I had no idea what it was or what to do with it. On being shown how to peel it, I then took half an hour to eat it, savouring every mouthful.
I wonder if the other local children who were also given a banana have similar memories.

These days bananas are so plentiful that younger people will not realise what aluxury they were in the 1940's.

On the rare ocassions when the greengrocer had a delivery of oranges, my mother would collect up the childrens' green ration books, walk half a mile to the shop and then join the queue to bring back some oranges.I probably stayed like a dog in the kennel in our Morrison shelter.

This is my transcription of a letter which my aunt — Gray Harris — wrote it in 1940 to my mother (Mabel) in Peterborough, where we were all living during the war years. I have tried to proof-read it, and think I have got it right - but you must remember that Gray did not have a spell-checker (though I have tried to correct where I felt it was justified), and also her style is not quite what I would have said.
A few background notes - my aunt Gray (a short form of Grace) was an infant school teacher, and was married to my father's brother Vic. At the time this letter was written her mother and father were living with them in Streatham. Ken Harris was another of my father's brothers, and was a senior Barclay’s Bank manager in Victoria Street, London, while Arthur Hibberd was my father's brother-in-law. (Arthur, incidentally, was a cousin of Stuart Hibberd, a senior BBC newsreader during the war years.) Daisy seems to have been my aunt's live-in maid - how things have changed!
**************************

33 Thornlaw Road, S.E.27
Tues. Sept. 10th 1940

My dear Mabel,
I had intended to write to you in any case tonight because I thought you would be wondering how we were standing up to the strain of Adolf’s blitzkrieg. Of course I got home late because we have had 4 short warnings today — at 1.0, 4.0, 5.0 and 6.0. The two last hung me up as I was having a cup of tea with a friend at a teashop when the first (5.0) one went, to be shortly followed by the “all clear”, but before we had finished our tea the next warning went, so we had to wait for that to clear up. Then when I tried to get home there was such a queue of people waiting to get home also (Why do people insist on living on my bus route? So selfish of them!). When I eventually arrived home I found your very welcome letter awaiting me, so, after exchanging news with Vic as to his day’s experiences, phoned my sister to see if they were all all right, incidentally learning that we have just brought down a 4-engine bomber. I am now settling down to ease your mind as to the morale of the Cockney after some days of hell with the lid off. Well, we have had 3 awful nights when the drone of Jerry’s planes was the most terrifying sound of the lot, and the wonder if the next bonk will be our house. Everybody thinks that Jerry is making a dead set at his own particular roof, and everybody thinks that each bonk is next door, or, at the farthest, two doors away. It rather takes the wind out of one’s sails when one learns that it was at least 3 miles away. Last evening, we had a short but very severe go at 5.0. We heard bangs, gunfire, the whistle of bombs, when we dashed as fast as Mother could go into our shelter (of which more anon) and then we distinctly heard a fight overhead, the rattle of machine guns, and the unmistakeable whiz of a falling plane. We were absolutely convinced that it must all be in the immediate neighbourhood, only to find later that it took place at Coulsdon, which must be about 8 miles away. Three planes were brought down in the field at the back of the garden of a friend of mine — 2 Messrs and a Dornier.
When all this fuss started a couple of weeks back, we used to go to bed and spend the night wondering if we ought to go downstairs, and after a night of this sort of suspense, I decided to put the beds all downstairs as a routine job. So now when bed-time comes, usually about 10.0 o’clock, the ceremony begins. We clear all the chairs away from a space in the lounge, carry our feather mattress in and make up our bed there. Vic has an arrangement of a screen balanced on two chairs and covered with cushions under which we put our pillows. The theory is that any falling plaster would hit the screen and not our heads. I hope the theory is correct. Then we make up Mother’s and Father’s mattresses on the floor in the dining room, with their feet under the table (a billiard diner). It would be better to have their heads under, but they don’t seem to like the idea of that. (There goes “Moaning Minnie” — she’s very punctual. She now goes soon after 8.0 and lasts until nearly 6.0.) Daisy sleeps in the kitchen, which is really a safe room because it is slightly basemented.
Interval while I do the usual stuff — fill the bath, all jugs etc., turn off the gas.
We haven’t got an Anderson shelter because they wouldn’t give us a free one, and we would have had to pay £9 to buy one. But as this house is on a hill, the garden is higher in the back than in the front, and Vic’s workshop which was originally a cellar, and in which we had two windows fixed, is reasonably safe. There is a trench outside it, and the earth slopes away from the trench. It has a concrete roof which is about a foot thick. We only go in there when the gunfire becomes too insistent, and so far we haven’t gone in there after we have gone to bed, no matter how loud the bonks are. Vic is amazing. He just goes to sleep. He wakes up occasionally when the noise is too insistent, but he promptly rolls over and goes to sleep again. This gift is a relic of his army days, and I am (touch wood) beginning to acquire a little of the same gift. I slept quite well last night, partly because it was colder, and I am told that last night was the worst so far.
The children are simply marvellous. They don’t appear to turn a hair. As far as I can make out, they all go down to their shelters and go to bed there. We have had very few at school this week. Yesterday we had to send them home in the afternoon because there was a dent in the allotment in the playground that might have been a time bomb, so we all stayed and got on with various jobs. We don’t go to school until 10.0 now if the all clear goes after 12.0, and our morning attendance is very small. I haven’t heard anyone say that they can’t stick it. They grumble, of course. They wouldn’t be English if they didn’t, but there is not the slightest sign of anyone wanting to give in. Everyone is mad at Hitler, but there is plenty of laughter and joking about it all. Some people go to the public shelters every night. You see a procession of them going to the local Church crypt with their blankets and pillows on a pram, and a bag of provisions.
Wednesday
I couldn’t go on last night because the gunfire started and became rather insistent, so we went into the shelter for a bit. Then by the time we came out and had supper, it was time to do the beds and it was too late for me to continue this letter.
It’s now about 10.0 o’clock — Moaning Minnie went about an hour ago, and we are being treated to a noisy battle overhead. I think there must be a mobile air gun in the near vicinity, and it’s cracking away (it sounds immediately overhead) and we heard a piece of shrapnel hit the window. As soon as there was a lull we crept outside to see if it was an incendiary bomb, but couldn’t see anything. The moon is as bright as day — I expect that is why there is so much gunfire.
We had a raid while we were in school this afternoon, and the big guns were making a terrific din. I was in the boys’ shelter (a large school-room that has been bricked up) and frankly, I began to feel a bit wobbly about the tum. But all the boys said when there were heavy bursts of noise “Guns”, and they were otherwise unmoved. And it wasn’t the quietness of ignorance, because the neighbourhood round the school has been treated to plenty of bombs, exploded and otherwise.
I wish you could see us all. Vic and Dad playing crib, Mother sitting in a chair, me writing this in an armchair, and all of us with cushions on our heads. Dad looks like Aladdin with a green cushion with a gold fringe on his head. I just looked up at him and had to giggle. He looked so funny. Wish I had your ciné to send you a picture! Daisy has just come in to clear the supper (we never use the dining room these days except for Vic’s office and the parents’ bedroom) and she has had a tooth out today, so she has a scarf round her head and face — she looks as if she has come out of a harem. Oh! We do look a crowd.
Well, I could go on for ages, but it is nearly 11.0 (as Daisy says) and we want to make beds, and I do want to post this in the morning. I hope this letter hasn’t been too raidy, but they are apt to take the foreground of life these days.
Oh! Arthur Hibberd’s boy John is a prisoner of war after all. So that is good news.
Ken Harris rang Vic yesterday. He is sleeping on hammocks among the coals! (Ken of all people). He said he was among coal, spiders and gas meters. A bomb fell outside and blew up the gas main, after which the smell of gas from the meter disappeared.
Yes please — I’d love the tea if you can really spare it. Are you sure you can?
Cheerio my dear. Love to you all,
Yours,
Gray

Mother, whose memory is rapidly getting worse, has just said naïvely “What are they shooting at? Are they shooting at one another?” Vic has a folded fluffy rug on his head and he just lost his way in it. He looks positively sinister, peering out of one eye, which is all one can see of his face. We keep getting the giggles as we look at one another.

THE SUMMARY OF CAROL AND VIVIENNE’S STORY —
“TWINS” - differs from the other girls in so much, that whilst they grew up enjoying the company of a sister, they were sadly denied the company of a Father, as when they were just 3 weeks old, he was tragically killed in Anzio, Italy. Their Mother’s struggle to survive in the post —world war of scarcity on a widow’s pension, which also had to meet the needs of her two growing daughters, and how she overcame her difficulties to successfully create a happy home for them all, is movingly told by the twins. In those days, when Wandsworth and Clapham Common were — in parts — still countrified suburbs, they have also told of how, whilst growing up there, they roamed freely and safely over them, recalling their many “attractions”, from H.M Prison to the Boating Pond! They conclude with an account of their Mother’s pilgrimage to Anzio, over forty years later, to visit their Father’s grave, when at last she was able to say goodbye. . .

CAROL AND VIVIENNE’S STORY - Unlike the other girls, who did not have the pleasure of growing up in the company of a sister, we did have each other. But sadly, we were never to know the company of a Father. As when we were just 3 weeks old, he was tragically killed in Anzio, Italy.
Our Father William Budd, had been born in South West London, as had our Mother Rose Collins. So upon her marriage on August 5th, 1939, at “St Michael’s Church”, Wandsworth Common, she charmingly, became known as “Rose Budd”!
They set up home in the lower part of a house on Clapham Common, where they lived for most of the war.
Our Father was employed as an aircraft fitter at “British Aerospace” in Kingston, Surrey, whilst our Mother “did her bit” working as one of a chain of fire-watchers. Sitting aloft on roofs, balconies and such-like, which did duty as their “headquarters”, they kept a lookout for incendiary bombs and similar substances — reporting any incidents to the local fire service.
Then in September, 1943, our Father was called up for active service and was subsequently sent to Canterbury, Kent for four months training.
During this time, our Mother finding herself pregnant, decided to join him — living in “digs” in the city — so they could meet on his weekly days-off from the camp.
On completion of his training in January 1944, they parted — he to join his regiment “The Sherwood Foresters” as a Lance Corporal — and she, back to their Clapham home.

By the Spring of 1944, the worst of the London raids had eased off, and the new terrors of the “Doodlebugs” were yet to come, nevertheless, pregnant women were still routinely sent out of London to the peace of the countryside to give birth. And so it was, our Mother found herself safely installed in a Nursing Home in the Roman city of St. Albans, Hertfordshire, to await the arrival of her first child. But much to her surprise, in the event, she gave birth to two!
On March 18th 1944, as Germany entered Hungary — the pair of us entered the world. Carol led the way, followed three quarters of an hour later by Vivienne — each of us weighing in at four pounds exactly.
Immediately, a telegram was dispatched to Lance Corporal Budd’s regiment, informing him “That he was now the Father of TWIN daughters!” He replied saying, “That he couldn’t wait to get home to see us all”. But sadly, it was not to be. On April 6th, 1944, whilst fighting in hand-to-hand combat in Anzio, he — together with the entire battalion — was killed. He was 28 years old.

Although utterly devastated at the tragedy that had befallen her, it seems that — after three months convalescence in Hertfordshire - our Mother began to tackle her difficulties with commendable courage, as she tried to come to terms with her new, sad situation back in her Clapham home, where we grew up. .

On August 6th, 1945, the first Atomic bomb was cast upon Hiroshimahi by the U.S.A devastating the city and killing 75,000 Japanese citizens. Then on August 9th a second one was dropped on the city of Nagashi - codenamed “Big Boy” by an American Super Fortress aircraft - killing a further 65,000.
Thus it was that on August 14th at midnight, the new British Prime Minister Clement Atlee, announced to the Nation on the wireless, “That the Japanese has today surrendered and the last of our enemies is laid low”. So with the ghastly power of the atomic bomb, the 2nd World War finally came to an end.
Of course there was universal relief that soon the day would come when the men would be returning home and life for many families’ - after almost six long years of separation — would return to normal.
It can only be imagined the overwhelming sense of loss that our Mother must have felt, that for her, that day would never come. But despite her shattered dreams, with the help and support of our parents large, extended families’, she successfully went on to create a happy home for us all.

During our early years, she decided to be “a-stay-at-home-Mum”, and as she had to be both Mother and Father to “her twins”, the bond between the three of us was unusually strong. But it was not until much later, that we realised just how much we owed to her constant care, companionship and incessant love.
Looking back now, we realise what a terrible struggle she must have had as a young woman trying to make ends meet in a world of scarcity on the pittance of a widow’s pension, which also had to meet our own growing needs. As it was necessary for both of us to have clothes and shoes at the same time, nothing could be handed down. Although she did receive extra help in the form of a small bursary from “The Church of England Children’s Society”, she later told us that at one point, when our Father’s savings had been depleted, she was left with only one shilling in her purse. And she did not know whether to put this into the electric meter, or to buy a loaf of bread, until her pension was due the next day.
Nevertheless, despite her many anxieties and lack of money, we all managed to enjoy life in a quiet way.

As we were fortunate enough to live on Clapham Common and our Grandparents lived on neighbouring Wandsworth Common, daily, Mother wheeled us across them in our large twin pram and later, the pair of us spent many happy hours roaming freely and safely over these wide open spaces. Between us, on our expeditions to and fro, we made some interesting discoveries.
The area surrounding Wandsworth Common, which was originally developed in Victorian times, even by the 1940’s, in parts, still resembled a countrified suburb.
The top of the Common was generally considered to be the better part! Threaded with footpaths, over which we followed, secret gardens, belonging to the “big houses”, could be glimpsed in the roads in-between, where the two Commons — Wandsworth and Clapham — merged.
As well, we explored the little parade of shops, the cemetery, and the railway station — waving to the passengers on the passing trains further down the line - and of course, the ubitiquious bomb sites, which sadly abounded in those post-war days.
Hidden behind some large gates, there was what was then called ”Springfield”, known locally as the “Lunatic Asylum. Complete with its own farm, sometimes, the patients could be seen working here.
There was also Wandsworth Prison, which was as large as a village, originally built with streets of Wardens houses and gardens. And beyond its high walls, lay acres of open ground, which was leased for bowls and tennis courts, where many of us later played.
The façade of the prison was impressive, like a fortress with huge main gates resembling a medieval castle. These gates had a small door let into them and now and again, a notice was posted there notifying the public of when a murderer was to be hanged! Often, on the appointed day, a small crowd collected outside waiting for the dreadful deed to be done.
In contrast, the attractions on Clapham Common were of a very different kind!
As Spring unfolded, we looked out for the early catkins on the budding hazel trees and in Summer, we took our picnics of bread, jam, fairy cakes and a bottle of homemade lemonade and played such simple games as — “film stars”, hop-scotch and skipping.
On sunny, weekend afternoons, families’ flocked to the popular bandstand. Here, the grown-ups sat in deckchairs to listen to the music, whilst we children sailed our toy boats or fished for “tiddlers”in the nearby pond. Then there was the annual arrival of
“The Horse Shows” and the excitement of “The Circus” with its impressive Big Top, which dominated the common.
On misty Autumn days, we walked through the rustling leaves, collecting acorns and conkers and later when the common was covered with snow, the foggy smell of the winter’s coal fires, caught our throats.

Our diet, compared to children’s of today, would be considered very, plain. But we were lucky - that even when our Mother later began working part-time - there was always a well cooked meal awaiting us when we returned home from school. We well remember her savoury suet, roly-poly puddings, dumplings, casseroles and pastry —topped pies, prepared from our meagre meat allowance, which unlike other commodities, were rationed by price, not weight. From 1941, the weekly allowance for an adult, was one shilling and for a child sixpence, and fell into two categories. A= the more expensive joints and B= the cheaper cuts. These were mainly used for stews, or put through the kitchen mincer for rissoles and cottage pies.
Then of course, there were the American “Lend Lease” tins of “SPAM.” Used cold in sandwiches and hot in fritters, all these, became familiar fare to children of our generation.
Beside the usual seasonal fruit and vegetables, of a limited variety, found in the local greengrocers, there was also garden fruit, starting with the early rhubarb and gooseberries and continuing through the Summer months to the last late plums and apples. Blackberries too, were collected for bottling and jam making and were stored in our larders for use in the Winter months.

Alas, our home during those long, bitter Winter’s of the 1940’s were extremely chilly indeed. We could only afford one open coal fire in the living room and an oil heater in the hall, which made smuts when it smoked, and in the dark, made interesting patterns on the ceiling. And the pungency of the paraffin lingered on well into the Spring!
Our bedrooms, being totally unheated, all too frequently had icicles hanging from the INSIDE of the windows, when the temperature fell below zero!

Needless to say, there was little money left over for luxuries, so we did not have a telephone or a television set. But we all enjoyed listening to the wireless together, to such programmes as — “Listen With Mother”, with Daphne Oxenford, “Children’s Hour”, “Children’s Favourites”, Dick Barton” and later “Life With The Lyons”.

There was always a warm welcome awaiting us in both of our Grandparent’s homes and however busy they were, each of them could spare time and love for us.
As sometimes happened with twins back then, Carol had the misfortune to be born with Talipes, a distortion of the foot. So, frequent visits to “Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children” were necessary for treatment and for the fitting of special shoes. On those days when our Mother accompanied Carol to London, Vivienne looked forward to staying behind with our paternal Grandparents. Here, we remember Grandad Budd lifting the kettle onto the kitchen range to boil, whilst Granny Budd knelt in front of the fire with a toasting fork to make toast for our tea.
Equally memorable, were our weekend visits to the Collins household where we regularly joined our maternal relatives for family occasions.
And so surrounded by affection, the early years of our childhood slipped by.

In the Autumn of 1986, over forty years since our Father’s death, our Mother was at long last, able to visit the war graves on a pilgrimage to Anzio, where he was buried. Arranged by the “British Legion”, she travelled in the company of other war widows with whom she had much in common. None of them had enjoyed an easy life. All had known the tragedy of war and the numbing poverty of its aftermath. And yet, almost all had gone on to build successful lives and loving families.
Thus, it came about, that on a quiet September morning, our Mother finally found herself beside our Father’s last resting place. Alone, with head bowed, she stood motionless for a moment, before gently setting her wreath against his memorial cross. Later, she watched the “Union Jack Flag” being lowered upon it, whilst a solitary bugler sounded the Last Post. Who knows what she felt at that time … love, loss and a longing for what might have been?
Before turning to retrace her steps, she lingered to take a final look at the sea of graves around her and thought of all those thousands of young men — all missed and all mourned.
Then as the dying strains of the salute echoed across the cemetery, she reluctantly said her last goodbye and slowly walked away into the Autumnal stillness.

7) THE SUMMARY OF MARLENE’S STORY — In London, she details her early memories of being shuttled down the steps of the Public Shelters, of family’s taking night refuge in the London Underground Stations, of gas masks, barrage balloons, sandbags and the daily ordeal of queuing with her Mother for their daily “Rations”. She also details the horror of the Balham Underground Bomb and the subsequent rescue operation in which her father, working as a fireman, was involved…
MARLENE’S STORY — I was born in South West London in 1942 — the same year that the first American G.I’S arrived in the capital city on their way to fight in Europe. My parents called me Marlene, which I always felt an odd choice of name, when Britain was in the middle of a war with Germany! But I have since concluded that their inspiration came from the English version of the wartime biggest song hit, “Lili Marlene” — “My Lilli of the Lamplight”!

Our home was a downstairs maisonette in Tooting Bec, South West London. From the front door a long entrance hall led to the kitchen. There were two main rooms to the left of the hall — one a bedroom and the other a large living room, which in those days, we called the “Front Room”. The right of the hallway led to a roomy square area, where there was a large cupboard and cellar, which was situated directly under the maisonette above. Here two elderly couples — who had already been bombed out of their previous homes — shared the upstairs accommodation between them. When the sirens sounded and the bombs started dropping, they came downstairs to join us. Together we all took cover to the right of our hall!

Sometimes we traipsed to the Public Air Raid Shelter at the top of the road or to the nearby Underground Station. As we lived so near to the Common, we could see the great barrage balloons rising up against the skyline, like huge silver saucers, which seemed to cover the whole of London. Their cables were designed to stop low flights.
Many of the operators were women who valiantly kept them afloat. Sometimes one of these balloons had to be cut free in bad weather and we would gleefully watch them crash into chimney pots or into the trolley bus cables overhead! As soon as we saw these operators getting ready for the launch, we knew that we had about twenty minutes before the raids started, giving us time to collect our possessions together.

One of my earliest memories was watching the frightened people hurrying down the steps of the shelters, clutching their flasks and sandwiches, which were often filled with little more than dripping. We all carried our gas masks, incase of an emergency. Some of the children’s were brightly coloured and known as Mickey Mouse masks, which they slung around their necks.

When the bombs began to rain down nightly, many decided that the London Undergrounds provided the safest shelters. At first the government were reluctant to allow their use as shelters. But once they realised passengers were buying one penny halfpenny tickets (cheapest available) to gain access — they realised they could not really prevent them!

Evening after evening, families started moving Tubewards, carrying their bedding to tuck their children in for the night. Gradually the platforms filled up and by the time of the 5-6 p.m rush hour alighting passengers had to step between the rows of people who had already “claimed their pitch”! The crowds ate, drank, chatted and laughed trying to keep up their spirits, pretending that nothing untoward was going on in the world above. One reporter said, “It was the most extraordinary mass picnic the world had ever known”!

But the conditions underground were appalling, with no proper sanitary facilities other than the overflowing “bucket variety” for MEN/WOMEN screened only by a curtain! However, as the raids worsened, for some people they had little other choice of shelters.

One night the road next to ours was badly hit and many families lost their entire home or worse still were killed outright. Another time a bomb landed on the Common at the top of our road, leaving a huge crater.

All through the war my father worked as a fireman in the London Fire Service and witnessed many harrowing scenes. It was especially grim when our local Northern Line at Balham Underground Station was bombed. He told me that it was absolute carnage. The bomb made a direct hit — fracturing both gas and water mains — flooding miles of tunnels. Tragically hundreds of people were drowned or buried in the rubble. And that night 680 shelterers lost their lives.

However, the British population gradually became used to the nights of bombing and in the mornings it was back to work as usual. And for the housewives, the daily ordeal of queuing, which was a wartime institution.

One of my enduring memories is lining up with my Mother, in all weathers, alongside shop windows sandbagged against bomb blast, carrying our ration books and old newspapers — because wrapping paper was in short supply. If you saw a queue, you automatically joined it! “What are we queuing for today Mummy?” I once enquired. “Wait until we get to the end of the queue and you will see.” She replied!

But there was one queue of which I needed little persuasion to join. And that was the one, which wound its way around the outside of our local sweet shop called “Fords”!
In pre-war days “Fords” were renowned for its wide range of high -class confectionary — especially chocolate Easter eggs and Christmas novelties. However during the war, when sugar was in short supply, all such luxury trading ceased. Instead, they were sadly reduced to accepting customer’s “Personal Points” — exchangeable only for confectionary and chocolates.

I remember all too well, my Mother handing over these precious “Points” and sometimes parting with the family’s modest sugar rations too - which “Fords” obligingly made into sweets on the premises.
Alas, we children had to wait until February 5th, 1953, before sweets eventually came off the ration!

Then for a while, “Fords” happily flourished once again. But later, I believe, it sadly suffered the fate of so many other little shops — finally closing its doors — and taking with it, the history of rationing, queues and my “sweet memories”.
8) THE SUMMARY OF SUSAN’S STORY — follows her family’s fortunes across the years, beginning with her parent’s first encounter whilst doing their war-time work at an electronics company in Surrey. How, her Father became involved in the development of radio receivers, which were used in bomber planes, notably those specifically fitted for the “Lancasters”, chosen for the famous “Dam Busters” mission in May 1943. And of her Mother’s “Interceptor Work” identifying enemy signals, and repairing and testing the radios that her Father had developed. Sue also writes of how she and a childhood friend survived the food shortages by paying their “last respects” at neighbouring houses where the ”Funeral Teas” were taking place! She concludes with an intriguing tale of how, over half-a-century- later, she traced the unknown benefactor of the food parcels which her family received from New Zealand throughout the war and discovered they had been sent by an unknown Kiwi Grandfather!...
Logging on to check for my emails one Spring morning in 2004, I found a message from an old school friend asking me if I would like to contribute to the collection of our “old” friend’s wartime stories. As it happened, this invitation coincided with another project, with which I had recently become involved. So sensing a familiarity between them, I readily agreed to participate.
Now living and working as a musician on the Isle of Man, we, in the community, are planning in 2005 an important event to mark those memorable years from 1939 — 1945 when thousands of stateless women came from all corners of Europe to live in internment camps amongst us.
It is hoped that the unique stories of these talented women — who included ballerinas, singers, patisseries and an entire order of Nuns — and the amazing lives they went onto create for themselves will be recorded, filmed and archived, before they have faded from living memory.
And so for the moment, I will switch my attention from this very interesting period of the Island’s past, to focus on my own personal history.
In a wholly different setting beginning in the suburbs of South West London during the year of 1939.

SUSAN’S STORY — As a young man my Father Gordon, was a “radio wizard” and first, encountered my Mother Frances, whilst they were both doing their war-work at “Marconi’s”, an electronic company in Hackbridge, Surrey.
Later they married in nearby Beddington Park Church followed by a wartime wedding breakfast in “Beddington Grange”.
Later still, I arrived to complete the scene and my parents called me Susan.
We lived with my paternal Grandmother, Violet Black, in a maisonette with a small garden at 114A Swaby Road, South West London. Our front windows looked across to Garrett Green, which at that time were still open fields. And it was there, during the early post war years, that one of the first comprehensive schools “Garrett Green“, was built.
Swaby Road ran from Earlsfield Station and the local cemetery at one end, to just behind Garrett Green at the other. I came to know it well.
When I first started school in Trinity Road, on Wandsworth Common my Mother and I either trudged there — mostly uphill — or I rode on the small pillion seat of her bicycle. In rain and shine, every morning and back again in the afternoon.

Unlike Grandma Black, who was a Londoner and sadly died in 1946, Grandma Long, my Mother’s Mother, was a country woman, born and bred from the Badminton area of Gloucestershire; and as a child she and her siblings attended the local village school.
I cannot be certain when or how she met my Grandfather, but I suspect it was whilst they were working “in service”, as at sometime in the early years of their marriage, he had worked as a gamekeeper to the Duke of Beaufort and they had lived in one of the pair of lodges at the gates of the ancient estate.
After a while they came to London and in due course they were followed by Grandpa’s five brothers who in turn, each joined the police force in the capital.
And for the main part of his working life, Grandpa Long served in “The Met” — Royal A division — the area around Buckingham Palace and Houses of Parliament.

Throughout the war years my Father became involved in the development of radio receivers, mainly those which were used in bomber planes, and notably those specifically fitted for the “Lancasters”, which flew in the famous ”R.A.F” 617 “Dam Busters” mission.
On May 17th, 1943, led by Wing Commander Guy Gibson, the squadron completed their successful mission to destroy the two huge Mohne and Eder dams, using the new “bouncing bombs” developed by Dr. Barnes Wallis.
However, despite doing this essential radio work and in common with many young men back then, my Father tried twice to join up for active service. But when asked the question, “Where are you presently working”? His reply brought the same response. In no uncertain terms he was told, “To stop wasting the recruiting officer’s time and to return to the important work in which he was currently employed”!
He also trained in heavy rescue and first aid, but fortunately this never had to be put into practice at “Marconi’s”.
Meanwhile, my Mother, who was a talented musician, and her sister Enid, who also had a keen ear, were both employed testing and maintaining the radios that my Father had developed. My Aunt Enid told me that one particular radio which came in for repair was found to have a bullet from a German fighter lodged inside. So it was little wonder that it had given up working!
The two sisters also did “Interceptor Work”. Sitting alongside of one another, in their individual “mesh cages” — with earphones clamped to their heads, and atmospherics crackling away within them — they listened intently to identify those vital enemy signals.
After my Mother’s long shifts had ended, she replaced her earphones for her tin helmet and cycled home, in the blackouts, from Hackbridge to Earlsfield, down what was then locally nicknamed “Doodlebug Alley”! Constantly glancing over her shoulder, she peddled furiously and many a time she had to dive into a ditch to avoid the efforts of the “Luffwaffe, who were busy targeting nearby Clapham Junction!
I well remember being given a brightly coloured set of building bricks which had been created from old tuning knobs, salvaged from the front of radios that were beyond repair. They came in three different sizes and colours - red, yellow and blue — and made perfect building bricks for a small child. Then they delighted me, but I wonder now, about who might have been operating those radios when they were hit? A sobering thought.

During the war and for a long time afterwards, food supplies were extremely short, especially in London, and the oddities of our daily diet were among the most vivid of my early memories. However, one of my childhood friends Angela - who to me then, was “a big girl” - developed a unique way of surviving these shortages.
Living close to the local cemetery, she began to take note of the whereabouts of nearby funerals! Although at that time, it was still customary for the “dear departed” to be laid out in state in the “front room”, this knowledge did not seem to deter the pair of us from presenting ourselves at the homes of our newly bereaved neighbours. Two small mourners, paying their “last respects”, in the hopes that we would be included at their Funeral Teas! On the occasions when we were lucky enough to be invited inside, there, we greedily indulged our passion for egg sandwiches and red jelly!
Looking back now, I am appalled at our misguided initiative, although it did seem to be a very, good idea at the time!

Fortunately, my family did have a more reputable source of eking out our rations. These came in the form of wonderful food parcels, containing such unobtainable goodies as delicious dried fruit, which regularly arrived throughout the war.
They were sent by a mysterious benefactor, one — William Henry Boyce - from New Zealand. Alas, by 1946 all such parcels ceased.
But, the story did not end there…
In 1999, whilst visiting my daughter Sarah and my son-in-law Clive, in their New Zealand home, my sense of curiosity drew me to the idea of tracing the mysterious benefactor, who had so generously supported our family during those dreary years in 1940’s London.
Although some of the details must remain conjecture, it appeared that during the Great War, my Grandmother Violet, had worked as a Nursing Auxiliary at a Convalescent hospital in, I believe, the Carshalton area of Surrey. There, she nursed a soldier from Timaru, South Island in New Zealand. And it was to my amazement, that I discovered the soldier’s name was William Henry Boyce!
He had earlier been injured whilst fighting in Gallipoli. Evidently he must have rallied well, as my Father was the result!
During an era, when reputations mattered, it seems that this liaison was understandably kept a closely guarded secret. For then, the world was not yet ready to accept the state of single motherhood. And many a young woman such as Violet was generally “persuaded” to give away her new born child.
But it seems that MISS. BLACK refused to be convinced. Good for Grandma!
Instead, with commendable courage, and after William had been safely despatched, back home to New Zealand, she decided to set about raising her son alone. And with spirit and will she succeeded — under the guise of a respectable World War One WIDOW!

It was on the last day of my visit, when Sarah and I set out in search of the Auckland cemetery, where we believed my Grandfather was buried.
We seemed to have walked for miles between the endless rows of graves, which unlike the British, vertical memorials here the stones had been horizontally laid —making the names particularly difficult to identify. Then, at last I stumbled upon it! I was filled with a strange kind of excitement as I stooped to read my Grandfather’s inscription.
My daughter and I stood looking at it together. And in the silence between us, my thoughts naturally turned to the past. What I wondered, would have happened to my Grandparents, had they have met under different circumstances?
I should have liked to think that Violet would have married the one love of her life, and I pictured the pair of them living happily together, raising a family in a home of their own. When … at that moment, I was abruptly brought back to the present. As if on cue, the black clouds that had hovered above us suddenly burst! The heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. Bedraggled, we made a swift exit as we squelched our way across the sodden ground to the cemetery gates.
We were glad to return to the shelter of the bus, glad that we had come and very glad that our search had been successful. Then through the downpour, we were driven away to Wellington Airport, much moved by all we had discovered.