High Explosive Bomb at Cassland Road

In September 1940 the bombing raids really started. The warning would start wailing very loudly, the nearest siren being on top of Stoke Newington Police station, which was almost opposite where we lived. The bombers started coming over every night, the first few nights we sat on the stairs with blankets wrapped around us, shivering from cold - or was it fear? All of us were very quiet listening to the pulsating sound of the bombers overhead.

After a few nights of discomfort we started going into the basement of our next door neighbour. We couldn't use our cellar, as it was full of bundles of firewood that were in stock to be sold in the winter - they were sold for tuppence a bundle, in my father's greengrocery shop. The Vogue cinema was at the other end of of the block of buildings where our shop was situated. It was the sort of cinema that when the film was over you waded through monkey nut shells, on your way out to the exit.

The Blitz comes close to home

One night a bomb dropped onto a bus outside the Vogue. It made a large crater, and fractured a water main. After a while, water seeped into the cellar we were in. As we were hearing a lot of noise from the anti-aircraft guns, and from the dropping bombs, it was decided to go over the road to a proper shelter under the Coronation Buildings, where there was a very large air raid shelter.

We came out and saw the sky criss-crossed with searchlights. Whilst we were running across the road, a bomb landed with an enormous bang on the West Hackney Church. The blast blew out the windows of The Star Furnishing Company windows. The huge glass windows just disintegrated, and fell to the ground like a beautiful waterfall, with all the noise and dust. We rushed into the shelter, but amazingly we were all untouched.

During the day I used to watch the occasional dogfight overhead, and like most boys of my age (I was 11) at the time, my hobby was to go around looking for bits of shrapnel. One morning, coming home from the shelter over the road, I found an incendiary bomb on the pavement outside our shop. I stupidly picked it up, and was examining it when a policeman appeared and said 'I'll have that' - and ran across the road to the station with it.

Shelter

Coronation Avenue buildings consists of a terrace of about 15 shops with five storeys of flats above. The shelter was beneath three of the shops.The back exit was in the yard between Coronation Avenue and another block of buildings, called Imperial Avenue. We went over the road to the shelter whenever there was a raid, and when the 'all clear' sounded in the morning, we would go back over the road, half asleep and very cold, and try to go back to sleep in a very cold bed.

The shelter consisted of three rooms. The front entrance was in the first room, the rear entrance was in the third room, which had bunk beds along one wall.The rooms were jam packed with people, sitting on narrow slatted benches. I would sit on a bench and fall asleep, and wake every now and then, and would find myself snuggled up to my mother and sister. My father had the use of one of the bunk beds, because the men were given priority, as they had to go to work.

Direct hit

On 13 October 1940, the shelter received a direct hit. We had settled down as usual, when there was a dull thud, a sound of falling masonry, and total darkness.

Somebody lit a torch - the entrance to the next room was completely full of rubble, as if it had been stacked by hand. Very little rubble had come into our room. Suddenly i felt my feet getting very cold, and I realised that water was covering my shoes. We were at the end of the room farthest from the exit. I noticed my father trying to wake the man in the bunk above him, but without success - a reinforcing steel beam in the ceiling had fallen down and was lying on him.

The water was rising, and I started to make my way to the far end, where the emergency exit was situated. Everybody seemed very calm - with no shouting or screaming. By the time I got to the far end, the water was almost up to my waist, and there was a small crowd clamberinig up a steel ladder in a very orderly manner. Being a little more athletic than some of them, and very scared, I clambered up the back of the ladder to the top, swung over, and came out into the open.

It was very cold and dark, and I was shivering. The air was thick with brick dust, which got into my mouth, the water was quelching in my shoes. I still dream of, and recall, the smell of that night, and the water creeping up my body. My parents and my sister came out, and we couldn't believe the sight of the collapsed building. My brother had been out with a friend - so was not hurt, and we were all OK.

My mother, sister and I went over to number 6, and my father and brother stayed to see if they could help in any way. Some bricks had smashed the shutters in front of the shop, and had to be replaced with panel shutters, which had to be removed morning and evening. The windows were blown out, and were replaced temporarily with a type of plastic coated gauze.

Afterwards

The next morning, we were told that only one person had survived in the other two rooms, and about 170 people had been killed. (In recent years I have been to Abney Park cemetery, where there is a memorial stone, with names of a lot of the victims who must have died in our shelter.)

There was a huge gap in our building, on about the third floor. There was part of a floor sticking out, with a bed on it. Someone said the person in it was OK, but this story might just have been hearsay.

A lot of the women used to bring photographs of their families to show each other during the long periods of waiting in the shelter. That evening my mother had brought a handbag full of photos to show some women, and fortunately she had not gone into the other room to show them. The photos were never recovered. My sister said she was alright, until she went up into our parents room the next morning, and saw soldiers arriving outside, with shovels - then she started crying (she was 15 years old).

A few days later, I saw men wearing gauze masks bringing out bodies, and placing them in furniture vans. Having seen bodies since, this is the only thing that comes back in my dreams - the furniture vans and the water.

Where next?

Having nowhere to go for shelter, my parents decided that we would go to the Tube station to sleep. We would close the shop early, and with bundles of blankets go to Oxford Circus station, via Liverpool Street, and sleep for the night on the platform. When the trains started to run the next morning, we would get up feeling very dry and grubby having slept fully clothed all night. We had to wait patiently until the platform cleared, and then back we went to Liverpool Street, and the 649 trolley bus home.

One night we heard a lot of noise above, and the next morning I went up to have a look, and saw a lot of Oxford Street burning. On the way home by trolley bus - amazingly they were still running - we went through Shoreditch, and saw fires still burning. But the motto everwhere was business as usual.

Looking for shrapnel when I got home, I saw an Anderson shelter in Glading Terrace that had received a direct hit - it was just a twisted lump of metal. The bombing was very heavy and some areas were roped off because of unexploded bombs. But it was a pleasant surprise when the King and Queen visited Stoke Newington - that was when I first had my photo taken with the Queen.

Photo with Queen Elizabeth

A water main near us had been had been hit, and my sister and I were trying to find a bowser lorry to get some water, when somebody told me that the King and Queen were in Dynevor Road, nearby. So I ran there, and managed to sqeeze through to the front of the crowd. The Queen made some comment about me to the woman behind me. Some time later my sister saw the photograph taken at the time, and contacted the newspaper and got some copies.

Eventually my parents arranged for my sister and me to be evacuated, and my brother (who was 19 years old) was posted to North Africa. He went from Alemein right through to Italy, and came home and went to the continent - finishing his war in Germany.

This story was written by Angela's mother, Dobbie Dobinson:

It was 1936. I was just 16 and looking for a bit of excitement, so I was quite interested when I was invited to a Blackshirt meeting. I was told it could get a bit unruly, but the boys were really dishy.

The meeting was in south east London and was bursting at the seams with young people, male, female, black, white - they were all there. I couldn't believe that politics were uppermost in their minds, and I'm sure it wasn't in mine.

I was completely bowled over by the appearance of the members - girls and boys alike. The immaculate black silk shirt and tie. The slim trousers tucked into long black shiny boots. Topping it all was the wide leather belt with the large shiny buckle with the Blackshirt emblem. I learned later that it wasn't just decorative, but had a slightly more sinister use. Under the buckle were several sharp spikes, which could be released when the belt was removed and became rigidly upright. It formed an extremely effective weapon when whirled around among would-be attackers.

I decided to become a member, with all arrangements for my uniform to be delivered ASAP. My parents, needless to say, were very disapproving, and that's putting it mildly, but they had always encouraged us to learn by our own mistakes - and they both reckoned this was a big one!

So far, I had only attended local meetings, but once I had my uniform I was keen to go further afield and hear the better speakers. Sir Oswald Mosley, our leader, was due to speak in the East End of London, always reckoned to be a very lively venue. The great man arrived to address what was a really huge audience. There were Brownshirts, Greenshirts, Communists and a very high proportion of the Jewish community.

To me he looked rather like a doll that had been very carefully dressed. Nothing was out of place. His hair was perfect for the then popular Brylcreem and his little moustache looked as though it had been crayoned on his upper lip. His boots shone like glass and when he gave the salute and clicked his heels I expected them to crack!

He began his speech, but it didn't last long. There was a lot of catcalling and he seemed to have difficulty in holding the interest of the crowd or controlling it. But his deputy arrived to save the day, introduced as William Joyce.

I recognised him at once, although it was quite some time since I'd seen him. His sister Joan had been in my class at Dulwich Hamlet School and I eventually met all his family and it was a very lovely one. Joan had a twin called James, then came Quentin, then Frank and last came William. They were all very happy and confident people and I much enjoyed their company.

As soon as William started speaking the atmosphere changed completely, and I was to learn from future meetings that he had the ability to manipulate a crowd like no-one I had ever heard before.

From then on I never missed one of his meetings, but of course they could be pretty rowdy and this was when I saw the belts put to good use. The opposition was not to be outdone, however, and whirled long pieces of thick string with a raw potato attached to the end with several razor blades stuck in at different angles. Both weapons were not to be argued with for long, but if you were unwise enough to stand your ground an ambulance was quickly required.

It was at one such meeting when things became really out of hand and the police, who always attended our meetings, moved in in force. They had evidently decided that enough was enough and rounded up a number of youngsters, including me. We were bundled into a large police van, the door of which was covered with a metal frame. It felt like being in a cage and the atmosphere became very subdued.

The younger ones, including me, were made to give the usual details and were asked where our parents could be contacted. They were told to come and pick us up. Most parents arrived in a very short time and it was made clear there would be a whole lot of trouble when they reached home. My father decided otherwise - he obviously felt it might give me food for thought if he left me until the next morning.

Actually, although I didn't get any sleep, I learned a great deal about a policeman's lot during the small hours and it was not a happy one. They dealt with drunks, street people and some very abusive people, and my vocabulary increased considerably! A very nice sergeant gave me cups of strong tea with lots of sugar and two arrowroot biscuits. I think he knew I wasn't a real criminal, just a rather stupid brainwashed youngster, and with hindsight I have to agree with him.

I left the Blackshirts when I met the boy who was eventually to become my husband. By then it was 1938 and preparations were going on for war, like sandbags, shelters and gas masks. My boyfriend, who had joined the Territorials, was called up and was whisked off to the Cornwall coast on a London bus, and there given a rifle but no ammunition!

War finally came and sitting alone one evening I turned on my little battery radio and was astounded to hear a voice I knew only too well saying 'Germany calling! Germany calling!' The voice still held an audience even though the messages raised the blood pressure of any red-blooded Englishman. These messages continued every evening and eventually William Joyce came to be known as Lord Haw Haw. He had left this country and joined forces in Germany with our enemies and therefore became a traitor. The war ended and William was brought home, to be tried and sentenced to death by hanging.

I clearly remember the morning the sentence was carried out. I got up early and left the family sleeping; I sat quietly by the window until the clock struck the hour and I knew it was all over and William was no more. But he had stuck to his beliefs till the end and I think, in his case at least, he really believed in the Blackshirt cause, misguided as it was. But as he was often heard to say: 'You can't win 'em all.'

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Elizabeth Perez of Stockport Libraries on behalf of Mrs Margaret Boon and has been added to the site with her permission. She fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

Friday 1st September 1939, a beautiful sunny morning and there I was, Margaret Webb, at the age of 9 years, standing on the platform at London
Fields Station in the East End of London, with my sister Joyce who was 4 years older, plus hundreds of other children. We were all agog at going on
this lovely train journey to God knows where. At that age we were very naive and didn't really understand what a war meant.

Most of our parents were there to see us off, double-checking that our name labels, which were tied to our coats, were secure and that we had our gas masks neatly packed in their boxes and slung over our shoulders, plus a case or bag containing our clothes and one or two personal effects. They, of course, also had no idea where we would end up. We finally set off about 9 a.m. with some tears, some fears, but a great deal of excitement.

After what seemed a very long journey, we alighted at a station called Thetford, which is in Norfolk (which we didn't know at the time). From there we were taken to a large hall, which I learned some years later was the Guild Hall. We were then given a mug of cocoa and a sandwich. A short
time later our names were called out and we were given a paper carrier bag each, which contained a tin of corned beef, some biscuits and one or
two other items of food, and put into various charabancs or coaches, as we would call them today. We were then dispersed in different directions.

After driving through the famous Thetford Forest and some beautiful countryside, during which time I had been sick (being a bad traveller and the cocoa probably didn't help,) we duly arrived at a village called New Buckenham, this was to be our final destination.

We were all bundled into the village school hall where all the local women were gathered. I cannot recall seeing any men there, apart from the two
male teachers who had travelled with us. Having arrived and feeling very nervous, we were well scrutinized by the waiting foster mothers - our
skirts were lifted to check our undies etc. Joyce and I were holding on tightly to each other as we had been given instructions by mother not to
be separated. Finally a lady asked if we would like to live with her and we were taken over to a Mrs Powell who was in charge of the billeting and
duly registered.

Mrs Tofts, the lady with whom we were to live, took us home to meet her husband and two daughters; Joy aged 7 and Shirley who was just 3. We were thrilled to find we were in fact living at one of the village shops (incidentally they made fantastic ice-cream). Everyone must have thought I was deaf because I can well remember saying pardon to everyone who spoke to me - I just couldn't understand their funny ways of talking. I had never heard the Norfolk dialect before. Mrs Tofts
then gave a basket to Joy and suggested she take us to the common to meet some of the local children and collect blackberries which she wanted to cook for our dessert after dinner.

On Sunday 3rd September, we attended church in the village and during the service we were told that war had now been declared with Germany. I'm afraid this didn't mean much to me as I thought war was a battle in a field just like the big picture hanging on the wall outside my old headmistress's office. I really had no idea that it could go on for years.
That night when we went to bed, my sister tried to explain it to me and was so convinced we would never see our parents again. I was far more
optimistic and I remember taking the sweet out of my mouth and giving it to her to suck just to pacify her and stop her crying. She was always
sensitive, whereas I was the tomboy of the family and wasn't going to let things like that worry me.

We wrote home to our parents and let them know where we were and told them all about our new surroundings and school and the many new friends
we had made.

One Friday evening, after we had been there about a month, I looked out of the window and couldn't believe my eyes. There was my Mum getting
out of a car. Oh the excitement!! What we didn't know was that she had written to Mrs Tofts, who in turn had invited Mum to come to New Buckenham to stay for the weekend to see for herself that everything was 0 K. During the weekend Mum went to see the billeting officer (Mrs Powell) and got a list of the names and addresses of the parents of all the evacuees in the village and, when she went back to London, contacted them and arranged a coach so that they (or at least one of them) could
make a trip to see the children on the first Sunday of every month.

Just before Christmas 1939, Mr Tofts was taken ill and at the same time his two daughters went down with chickenpox. As Mrs. Tofts had the shop to run as well as look after her sick family, this meant that we had to move and leave the home we were getting nicely settled in and find somewhere else. Unfortunately no one could take us both together, but we found billets next door to each other. Joyce went to live with Mrs Smith on the other side of the village green and I went next door to live
with Mr & Mrs Brown.

Mrs Brown was very strict and extremely houseproud so I had to watch my step. However she was a wonderful cook. Mr Brown (Ronald) was a farmer, a churchwarden, a member of the Royal Observer Corp and a very respected member of the community and I loved him from the start. He had the most wonderful giggle and when the two of us started it drove everybody mad. We always had a lot of fun together. My own father had always been very distant with me and I can never remember him giving me a cuddle or sitting on his knee. Whereas Mr Brown was entirely opposite, so I suppose it was only natural that I came to regard him as my true dad in every sense.

I had only been with the Browns for three days when I woke up and found my body was covered in spots and blisters. I'd caught chickenpox. As it
was Christmas Eve this meant we could not spend the festive holiday with Mr Brown's parents, which was the usual custom, as I was confined to my bed. As Mr Brown was so determined that I should be kept amused he climbed up into the loft and brought down his mandolin which he had brought back from Greece at the end of the First World War (and incidentally never played since) and tried to keep me happy by playing lots of tunes (not too well I'm afraid). Even though I was feeling pretty ill I can tell you we had plenty of laughs.

The farm was just outside the village, but I spent every spare minute there. I may have been a Cockney but I was a true country lass at heart.
I took to the life like a duck to water. I would feed the hens, muck out the cattle, brush and groom the three beautiful shire horses. The largest was Captain and he was huge. Next was Blossom and then my favourite, the smallest one John. I helped with the haymaking and harvest and the threshing and adored every minute.

One day in Autumn, when I was leading one of the horses pulling a cart load of sugar beet I wasn't watching where I was going and the horse ended up standing on my foot. Not knowing any different I tried pushing his body to get him off. He knew better than to be pushed off balance so trod down all the harder. It was only when one of the farm workers saw what was happening and picked up the horse's hoof by the fetlock that I realised how easy it was. Fortunately no bones were broken, but my foot was badly bruised and swelled up like a balloon and stayed that way all the week. I didn't blame the horse - it taught me a valuable lesson.

Mr Brown also owned a couple of orchards and round about September time each year we gathered all the eating apples, cooking apples and pears in bushel baskets and took most to market, either in Diss or Norwich. As he was a farmer and an important citizen he was allowed a certain amount of petrol. I couldn't believe it when I first saw his car - wow! It was a navy blue Rolls Royce.

Whenever we went into the town, Mrs Brown always asked if I wanted to stay with her and go round the shops or would I rather go with Ronald and yes, of course, I always preferred to go with him. He took me round the museums and the cathedral and in the winter we mostly ended up at Carrow Road in Norwich to watch the football. I suppose this must have
caused a bit of jealousy, but at the time I didn't realize it.

Mrs Brown always went out on Wednesday nights to play whist somewhere in the village and did not get back until around 10.00 p.m. She gave strict
instructions each time that Ronald should make sure I was in bed by 8 p.m. Once she had gone we got out the cards and he taught me to play rummy, Newmarket and crib. Naturally as we were enjoying ourselves the time just flew and often we would hear the back gate and I would fly off to bed just before she came in. On entering I would hear the same old question "Did she go to bed on time?" and the answer "Of course Maggie." and I would be giggling under the bedclothes.

In September 1941, I had to go to the school in the next village now I had attained the age of 11 years. Old Buckenham School was just over 3 miles
away and of course much bigger. For the first few months we had to walk there and back, no matter what the weather and that winter was one of
the worst on record. Deep snow drifts and the snowploughs were brought out to clear the roads. I developed enormous chilblains on my feet and
the backs of my legs, but I still got to school every day and on time. There was quite a crowd of us that used to go together which made it all
the more enjoyable.

Eventually the Norfolk County Council gave us all bikes, which we had to take good care of. Our headmaster held an inspection every week to check that we had cleaned them and everything was in order. If we were caught playing around on them or giving someone else a lift they would be taken away, so we were always very careful to keep within the rules. We were taught how to mend a puncture and put the chain back on and pump the tyres up to a certain standard and clean and polish them so they
always looked like new. Extremely proud of our bikes we were - never had anything like it in our lives before. Sometimes at weekends during the
summer I would go out with Mr and Mrs Brown round the countryside on our bikes.

By this time my sister Joyce had already returned to London, having reached the age of 14, and also because she was suffering from asthma and needed hospital treatment.

When I first went to live with the Browns they had a beautiful cat called Peter. Although I have never been a cat lover, something about this one
appealed to me. Maybe it was because he was so friendly from the start. He had a lovely pure white front and the rest of him was a kind of pinky-
ginger. He really was a great big bundle of soft cuddly fur. I spent hours grooming him, while he purred loudly with contentment.

One day I decided to give his whiskers a trim and he sat there quite happily while I cut them back to about one inch on each side. When Mr Brown saw him, he was horrified and that was the only time he scolded me. He went on to explain that the whiskers on animals were used as a measuring device. By putting them against a gap, the animal knew whether the rest of his body would go through -Lesson No. 2.

After I started at Old Buckenham School I developed a habit of stopping off at the farm gate and giving a long whistle. If the horses were not working they would come in answer to my whistle. Invariably John was always the first. One afternoon in late Autumn, I stopped as usual and
could see John lying down in the next meadow. As he didn't respond I got worried and raced off to find Mr Brown to tell him. It transpired that
poor John was so old and had collapsed. The kindest thing was to have him put down. This really upset me and I cried buckets. It's hard for an 11 year old to realise that this was for the best. I had regularly taken all three horses down to the village blacksmith to be shod, and I loved the warmth of his fire, especially on cold winter days.

I had many friends in the village and when not on the farm we used to go on to the common to play. I must admit when the boys were playing cricket I used to steal their ball and get chased and sometimes thumped for my cheek. I was also a bit of a rogue on the farm and tormented the poor farm workers. One day after we had mucked out the cattle sheds and had a nice big pile of warm manure, they got so fed up with my torments they grabbed me by my legs and arms and threw me on top of the pile. I was only wearing a little top and shorts. By the time I climbed off, I stank to high heaven. Mrs Brown was not best pleased when I
arrived home.

Mr Brown Senior, who was my foster grandfather, had a pony called Peggy and a trap, which he took great pride in. Always polishing the wood and brass until it shone. I felt very privileged when he taught me how to drive the pony and allowed me on one occasion to take the reins on a return trip from Diss. I was so proud I felt like the lady of the manor.

Grandfather Brown used to grow grapes under his veranda in the garden, which were his pride and joy. On one occasion when I was playing out
there, I looked up and saw these enormous bunches of grapes hanging down just above my head so I reached up and pulled a bunch down. I was
sitting enjoying these lovely juicy things when I received a cuff around the ear. (The one and only time in my life) - Lesson No.3 - Never take
something which doesn't belong to you without asking permission.

Late in the year of 1943, Mrs Brown informed me that my Mother was coming the next day to take me back to London. I was completely stunned
as I was prepared to stay for the rest of my life and couldn't understand why I had to leave. No explanation was given to me.

On the day of parting both Mr Brown and I were heartbroken. My Mum told me later that Mrs Brown had written to say she could no longer cope and suggested I should come back to London. As she never did tell Mr Brown the reason he naturally thought my mother was to blame. I can only assume on looking back that she must have been jealous because we had grown so close. Mum thought it might have been because she didn't know how to handle things as I was becoming a teenager and it might mean a lot of explaining. However I did write to them regularly and was invited back each year for a two-week holiday, but of course the closeness between Mr Brown and myself had been broken and I must confess I found it hard to forgive Mrs Brown for that.

Anyhow I was determined not to lose contact and when I was to be married in 1953 at the age of 23, I not only invited them both to my wedding, I asked Mr Brown if he would do me the honour of giving me
away (my parents by this time had been divorced). I don't think I have ever seen such pride and pleasure on a man's face as I did that day. I
thought his speech at the reception was never going to end. To cap it all we went back and spent our honeymoon at my old home in New Buckenham.

Mrs Brown died a few years later, having suffered from diabetes for some time. I discovered she had never told Mr Brown the truth about my departure and I didn't feel it was right to enlighten him.
As he had always been a busy farmer and never had to do cooking or housework he was completely lost and eventually his brother found a neighbour who was widowed and was willing to move in to the house in New Buckenham and become his housekeeper. Eventually they were married and I must say, Grace, the second Mrs Brown was an entirely different
personality to Maggie. She was homely and had a lovely sense of humour and I got on very well with her. I still went for holidays occasionally but
Mr Brown's health gradually deteriorated. Then at the beginning of the '70s I received a letter from Grace telling me he had died and I knew I had lost a true and lovable friend.

I still keep in touch with Grace, even though it is now 2004 - some 60 years or more since I first went to New Buckenham. She is now in poor health and in her late 80's.

I also regularly keep in touch with one of my old school friends, who is 4 years older than me, who was also an evacuee and married a Norfolk man
at the end of the war and settled in Thetford. It was in fact Florrie who organised a celebration for some of us together with the villagers after
50 years. We went back each September where we had a church service and called on some of the village folk that we remembered.

We also had another celebration after 60 years in the village as well as attending a march and special service organised by the Evacuees
Association, in Westminster Abbey. This was supported by hundreds of ex-evacuees from all over the country which included many famous names.

I wrote a poem for each of the 50th and 60th celebrations which were printed in the New Buckenham parish magazine. Copies of both have also been lodged with the Imperial War Museum in London.

As I spent so many happy years of my childhood in Norfolk being loved and cared for, I still class New Buckenham as my home.

The Bethnal Green Tube shelter disaster took place on the evening of Wednesday March 3, 1943. 173¹ people died in a terrifying crush as panic spread through the crowds of people trying to enter the station's bomb shelter in the East End of London. However, no bomb struck and not a single casualty was the direct result of military aggression, making it the deadliest civilian incident of World War Two.

The context

The East End, with its industry and docks, had been a target for German bombers since the Luftwaffe² had failed to establish air superiority in the Battle of Britain^{About links}. Furthermore, the East End was seen as a barometer of British civilian morale. So, even though the Blitz^{About links} had ended almost two years ago in May 1941, bombing raids and sirens were still an everyday part of life for Eastenders as Germany and Britain carried out tit-for-tat raids^{About links} in an attempt to demoralise civilian populations.

Bethnal Green Underground station, as one of the few deep-level stations in the East End, was an obvious choice for a huge public bomb shelter. Situated in a densely populated urban area, the shelter had at times held 7,000 people, and contained 5,000 bunks.

In the weeks leading up to the disaster the shelter had seen regular use. By now local people were quite knowledgeable about the blows and counter-blows of the bombing campaign: indeed an inquiry into the disaster^{About links} had noticed that they 'take a most intelligent interest in the accounts of our bombing of the enemy'. Consequently, many people would be in or near the station when expectation of German bombing in the area was high. Following heavy bombing of Berlin on March 1, many were anticipating a retaliatory strike on March 3.

The bombing begins

Approximately 500 people were already in the shelter when the warning sirens sounded at 8.17pm. Since German bombing had switched tactics from slow, heavy aircraft, to lighter, faster bombers, people had less time to reach safe shelter. Bethnal Green residents knew this, and poured out of cinemas and off passing buses towards the station.

An estimated 1,500 people negotiated the station's dimly lit, solitary entrance between 8.17pm and 8.27pm. With only a 25-watt light bulb to guide them in the dark of the blackout^{About links}, the station's wet steps - it had been raining - must have made for a treacherous descent.

Panic

At 8.27pm the touch-paper was lit. A frightening roar went out as a nearby anti-aircraft battery fired its salvo of 60 rockets. The battery was new, with an unfamiliar sound. Apprehension turned to panic. As the crowd surged forward down the slippery steps a woman holding a small child fell near the bottom of the first staircase. A man tripped over her, and a tragic human domino effect had begun.

It is estimated that hundreds of people fell within just 15 seconds. Unaware of what was happening in front of them, people kept surging forward into the supposed safety of the shelter.

In this mass panic any rescue attempts were severely hampered. PC Thomas Penn^{About links}, who was escorting his pregnant wife to the shelter, arrived on the scene as the disaster was unfolding. To assess the scale of the event he crawled over the massed bodies to the bottom of the 19 steps and found 200 people in a space the size of a small room. PC Penn climbed out again and sent a message for help, before returning down the steps to help extricate people from the tangle of limbs and torsos.

Aftermath

Despite the best efforts of rescuers, 173 people: 27 men, 84 women and 62 children. A further 62 people were taken to hospital. It was reported that the woman who originally fell had survived, but her child had not.

Fearful that news of such an unnecessary disaster would damage public morale, the British government ordered that both the location and precise number of fatalities should be kept secret. A public inquiry was demanded by some, but instead the details of an inquiry by Mr Laurence Dunne were kept 'under Lock and Key' due to security considerations. Minutes from a War Cabinet meeting^{About links} where the disaster was discussed concluded that publication 'would give the incident a disproportionate importance, and might encourage the enemy to make further nuisance raids.'

Instead it was decided that a short statement should be made to the House of Commons by the Home Secretary and Minister for Home Security acknowledging receipt of the inquiry and saying that action was already being taken to prevent further such disasters taking place. Furthermore, in accordance with the inquiry's findings, it was to be stated that rumours of 'Jewish or Fascist elements' being involved in creating the crush were absolutely without foundation.

Remembrance

As well as having a song written about it³, the disaster is commemorated with a plaque that can be found at the station's southeast entrance on the corner of Cambridge Heath Road and Roman Road^{About links}, above the step where the first women fell. It reads:

In Memory of the 173 Men, Women and Children
who lost their lives on the evening of
Wednesday 3rd March 1943
descending these steps to Bethnal Green
underground air raid shelter
Not forgotten

¹ Some sources put the figure at 178, but 173 is the figure given on a plaque at the station and is also the figure given in the government inquiry, so that is the figure used here.

² The German air force.

³ 'Bethnal Green Tube Disaster' by Frank Tovey and The Pyros on their 1991 album, Grand Union.

6

We went to a school on Blackstock Hill while Mum continued to do her job at the Air Ministry. In the school holidays we were left completely to do whatever we like all day and having few toys and nothing creative to do, we inevitably got into mischief. Our main pastime was to go down the hill to Finsbury Park underground station, where for a small amount we bought a ticket and spent the day travelling around the London underground, finding out which stations hard the longest escalators to play on. The ticket inspector invariably saw us and chased us from station to station, while we nimbly jumped from carriage to carriage. The night air raid still continued and the sirens and guns firing made it very difficult to sleep. By summer, most of the children in school looked pale and tired. The schools country holiday find organisers did their best to send most of the children away for a short holiday and we were asked if we would like a week in Devon. Mum, glad to be relieved of us, was quick to accept. The week stretched to a fortnight and the to three weeks. Finally, Mum asked Mrs Clapp, the young naval wife with whom we were staying, if we could stay on a evacuees. Hilda Clapp was lonely living in her small cottage with only her one-year-old daughter for company. Not knowing when or if her husband would return, she agreed that we could stay.

Honiton is a pleasant little town famous for its lace making. It is surrounded by delightfully undulating country, where daffodils grow wild and profusely in the hedges every spring. I was glad to be in the country once again but hurt inside knowing full well that our mother no longer wanted us. Letters became less and less fequently and Hilda, after one prolonged spell without news, began to fear that she might have been killed in the bombing. All this worry was telling on me and my behaviour deteriorated greatly. Hilda began to find me more and more difficult to manage.

She had an auntie called Ivy who lived three miles away in the tiny hamlet of Coombe Raleigh and frequently sent me to stay with her at weekends just to give herself some relief. At least a letter arrived saying that Mum was all right but had moved to Bow.

By now I was ten and as the allied troops began to collect in preparation for the D-Day landings, large camps of American soldiers accumulated around the town. Back in London, Bill Daycott was recalled to his regiment, also in preparation for the landing in which he was subsequently to die. At Easter, Mum came, supposedly to see us. It was nine months since we had seen her and she had four whle days to spend with us but coming to Honiton on the train she met an American soldier called Steve, who was stationed near us and apart form meal times, in all those four days we hardly saw Mum at all. The town's tongue waggers had a field day discussing her behaviour and when she returned we were left to listen to it and feel ashamed.

7

This latest rejection resulted in a further deterioration in my behaviour and by mid-summer, Hilda could stand me no longer and home she said we would have to go. We sat on the tiny platform, waiting for the train to come in, while Aunt Ivy begged Hilda to keep us. ('You'll never forgive yourself if they get killed in the bombing,' she said). But Hilda was quite unmoved. So back to Bow.

Bow is what local planner call a twilight zone; I can't imagine why. The thoughts that twilight conjure up for me are of pleasant summer evenings, getting dusky, with a few stars just beginning to appear. Something beautiful, in fact, and there is absolutely nothing beautiful about Bow. Dirty streets made up of row after row of bay-fronted terraced houses, all identical and all with outside toilets and no bathrooms. If you wanted to keep yourself clean, it was a toss up between a quick wash down in the scullery, with the gas stove to keep warm, or a trip to the local public baths, where for seven pence second class or a shilling first class, after a two hour wait in the queue, you could have about eight inches of water and a half hour of privacy. We paid seven pence and took our place like second class citizens in the queue, while our more affluent friends paid a shilling to wash their supposedly first class body in the cubicle next door. Even this luxury was interrupted at intervals by the aged attendant calling out, 'Hurry up in there number three.'

We lived in one of these terraced houses without any electricity and went to school across the road in Olga Street. Few of the houses had any windows left in them by now and workmen were kept busy going round filling the window frames with brown paper-backed canvas. One enterprising schoolteacher obtained a roll of this material and, with the paper backing removed, the canvas was ideal for teaching us to do cross stitch embroidery as we sat in the air raid shelter.

School had practically come to s standstill due to lack of pencils and paper. One day, one of the boys in the school was blown to smithereens while fishing on the banks of the canal near Victoria Park. We took a collection for some flowers and the whole school stood outside to see the remaining pieces of Boy Franklin depart. But such is the resilience of youth that the very crater of left by the bomb that had killed our playmate now became our chief source of entertainment. We borrowed old bicycles and starting from the centre of the crater, we rode round and round, faster and faster, till we reached the perimeter at an angle of 90% like rider on the wall of death at the fair ground.

One night we went to bed surrounded by buckets and bowls and basin, to catch the drips from the far from leak-proof roof to be awakened by the most almighty BANG. The whole house seemed to rise in the air for a few seconds and come down again. There was a hole blown through the bedroom wall and from the window frame we could see flames coming from somewhere.

For a moment, we were too shocked to move. The slowly as the shock wore off, I heard Mum's voice trembling with fright say, 'Oh my gawd, we've bin hit.'

8

A few seconds more and then we began to move. We felt ourselves and found that miraculously we were all unharmed. We fumbled out way downstairs and out into the street. Other people were appearing from their houses too and we called to one another, 'Where's the hit?' Someone said, 'It's round the corner in Antill Road,' and we all began to run in that direction. The air was full of dust from the rubble.

As we turned the corner, an old man dressed only in his shirt, came wondering along the road, with his arms outstretched in front of him, like someone sleepwalking. He was completely dazed and was muttering to himself. Someone took him by the hand and said, 'Come on Dad, you're going to be all right.'

The railway bridge had completely disappeared. So had the chemist's shop next door to it; but in what remained of the stockroom behind it, a large carton of sanitary towels stood perched at a crazy angle, with it's contents slowly falling out like snowflakes down on the debris. The off licence shop on the opposite corner was also gone and when they found the body of Mr Rodgers the proprietor both his legs had been blown clean off.

The police arrived and immediately cordoned off the whole area. While rescue workers searched for more survivors, people stood around in little groups, questioning each other as to the cause of all this damage. Some thought it had been a landmine. Slowly, bits of information revealed that it was in fact the first of the V.I guided missiles. But with the humour born of hardness, which only cockneys possess, they had already nicknamed it the Doodlebug.

Doodlebugs arrived frequently and we got used to listening to all aeroplanes to see if their engines cut out. If it did, we ran for cover and counted to fifteen while waiting for the bang. If you heard the bang, we knew you were one of the lucky ones; you were still alive. But as if this was not enough, the Germans had more to offer; now the really big rockets began to arrive. In the early days of the blitz, people had got used to one or two houses being demolished and with the coming of Doodlebugs we got used to seeing whole streets disappear. But no one was prepared for the destruction of whole areas that these rockets caused.

The school authorities went on a positive campaign for the evacuation of all the children from the East End and, once again, off my sister and I went. No one knew how far the rockets would be able to reach so it was decided we must go as far away as possible. Our train went until it could go no further and stopped at the last station in Penzance in Cornwall.

Penzance is a charming little town which has a fine harbour and a beautiful botanical garden where tropical plants flourish in this area's mild climate. There are marvellous views of St. Michael's Mount, a small island in the bay. What a contrast from the London we had just left behind. All the houses actually had windows.

9

We were put into a bus and driven around the town, stopping at every street, while women came out of ther houses and looked us over and said, 'I'll have that one' or,'I'll take two,' as if we were inanimate objects. We went to a tiny old spinster called Miss Brett. Miss Brett had spent all her life as a governess in France and she was very strict with us. As we had been used to practically running wild in London, we did not appreciate this. She locked me in the bedroom for a whole day because I did not eact my greens. I wrote complaining to me mother but after I had gone to school, Miss Brett openend my letter and read it. Se was furious with me and that Saturday found us back at the billeting office. Evacuee was becoming almost a dirty word and not many people were willing to take them in. I knew it would be difficult to find somewhere else for us.

But somewhere was found and now we went to the home of Mr and Mrs Bear. They had two children of their own, a boy and a girl and one other boy called Jimmy who was the son of an officer in the army. This boy was an unmitigated snob, who considered himself to be superior to us in every way because, as he never ceased to tell us, he was a private evacuee and not a government sponsored one. We had not been here long before Mr Bear, a fat, lascivious man, began to take an interest in my sister, who was fourteen and fast developing into a young lady. Mrs Bear was quick to notice this and with the excuse that she was sick, took us back once again to the billeting office. I can’t think why they didn't put up a couple of camp beds for us there, it would have made life so much simpler for them.

Next we went to the home of Mrs Nesbitt. She lived in a small house in the centre of town, with her mother and son and daughter. Her husband was a prisoner of war in Germany and she worked as a newspaper roundswoman. Every day we had all the daily newspapers first and plotted the advances made by the Allied Forces in Europe to see whether Stalag 23 was liberated. At Christmas, Sis was fourteen and left school and returned to London to start work as the bombing had now ceased. So our family was broken down once again, my last emotional stabliser was gone and I was alone. I was very small and skinny for my age and without Sis to defend me, Robbie Nesbitt the fat, twelve stone son of the house took great delight in giving me a good thumping every time we were left alone in the house.

The bombing of London had now ceased altogether and many of the evacuees' parents sent for them to go home. Finally the war was declared over. Six weeks later U was still there; no one had sent for me. Mr Nesbitt arrived home looking white and thin. Then one day a rumour went round the school, we, the remaining refugees were going home next week. The excitement was terrific as the train pulled out of the station. Children ran up and down the corridors shouting joyfully, 'We're going home, we're going home.' But home is where you are loved and where you belong and where did I, the girl who five years earlier had left London plump and happy and now returned thin and bitter within belong? After attending eight different schools and having lived in thirteen different homes, with no father and a mother who no longer cared. The only truthful answer was nowhere. But like Scarlet O'Hara in 'Gone With The Wind', I learnt to say, 'Tomorrow is another day.' But that is another story.