Bombs dropped in the ward of: Nunhead

Since forming the Evacuees Reunion Association many people have asked for an
-Account of my own evacuation and why I founded the Association.

What follows is an attempt to meet that demand.

1938 and the war clouds are forming.
I was seven years old in 1938, living with my parents, three brothers and sister in a five bed roomed house in Camberwell, south London.

As the youngest of the family I lived a very sheltered life, there was always someone there to look after me. Our way of life was strictly governed by the social rules of the time and of our immediate environment.

To understand those rules you need to know the history of Camberwell from when it ceased to be a rural village in the County of Surrey and first became a very fashionable suburb of London, later .to find parts of the area degenerate into crowded slums.

The Victorian houses in our road ceased to be lived in by people who could afford to employ servants but it remained quiet and very ‘respectable’.

On Sunday mornings we children would go for walks to places such as Ruskin Park, but before we were allowed to set off we had to line up and be inspected by our father, who would look to see that our shoes were highly polished, our hair brushed and combed and that we boys’ ties were straight. “No child of mine leaves this house looking scruffy!” was his rule.

We were only allowed to go to the park and there were certain parts of Camberwell and Peckham that we were forbidden to walk through, sometimes, we broke that rule, only to be shouted at by the children who lived there. Such was the social structure of the times and the district.

During 1938 and early 1939 we saw the preparations for war being made, sandbags were stacked in front of public buildings, gas masks were issued and great silver barrage balloons wallowed in the sky over London.

The Anderson shelters were made available for people with gardens and parents were urged to register their children for evacuation. My parents attended the meetings at o schools and decided that we should go if war broke out.

As I was only eight and brother John nine, it was arranged that we would not be evacuated with our own school but with that of our sister Jean who was then nearly fourteen. Brother Ernest was to go away with his own school, but our eldest brother, Edward, had already left school and therefore stayed at home until being called up for military service.

During the summer holidays of 1939 the order came that schools in the evacuation areas were to immediately reopen and all children who had been registered for evacuation were to report daily to the school they were to go away with, taking with them the things parents had been told to pack, plus enough food for a day, but nothing else.

No one knew when, or even if, the evacuation would begin. Everyone involved had to wait for the government to issue the signal ‘Evacuate Forthwith’, which happened on Thursday 3l August 1939.

Evacuation Day

When I went to my sister’s school on the morning of Friday 1 September, with my gas mask in its cardboard box slung over one shoulder and carrying a little suitcase, I didn’t know what was about to happen. Soon we were lined up in a long ‘crocodile’ and the teachers came round tying luggage labels on us.

Then, led by the Head Teacher and two of the bigger girls carrying a banner on which were the words ‘Peckham Central Girls School’, we marched out on our way to a railway station, with a policeman in front to stop the traffic.

We didn’t know where we were going; neither did our parents or most of the teachers. All that was strictly a secret.

I can remember every detail of that day, the crowds of parents standing in silence on the other side of the road — they were not allowed to walk with us — I wondered why so many of the women were crying and why a very angry man was shouting “Look at those luggage labels, they are treating them like parcels!!!” I was wildly excited, after all my parents had told me I had nothing to worry about, it would be like going on holiday and that we would all be home again before Christmas.

Little did I know that four years would pass before I returned home for good, or that our very close family would never again be fully reunited.

I caught a glimpse of our mother in the watching crowd and waved to her, but I don’t think she could see me. I often think what it must have been like for her to return home knowing that four of her children had been taken away, to where she didn’t know, and to see four empty chairs at every mealtime and four unslept beds. How quiet the house must have been.

They marched us to Queens Road, Peckham, station. To reach the platform you had to climb a steep flight of wooden stairs and on the way up some of the girls stumbled, causing others to fall on top of them. The platform was already crowded as another school was already there.

That was when the teachers and porters started shouting “Keep back, keep back” and pushing us away from the edge of the platform. But there was no room at the back.

After a long wait a special train arrived and a mad scramble aboard began, brothers, sisters and friends trying desperately to keep together, teachers trying to push us all into the tiny compartments.

Then the porters ran along locking the doors. It was old fashioned, non-corridor train and therefore had no toilet facilities, the day was hot, the journey lasted hours and the results were inevitable.

Eventually the train stopped at a country station and the staff came to unlock the doors. Then all the shouting started again as they hurried us off the station, but first we each had to collect a carrier bag containing foodstuffs that were to be given to the people who took us in.

In each bag was also a big bar of chocolate.
Soon there were hundreds of children milling around the station forecourt, with their teachers frantically trying to keep them together.

A solution to the problem was quickly found — they put us in the pens of the adjoining cattle market, where we waited to be taken by bus to the village school.

I only saw one single deck bus that ran a shuttle service, so for so the wait was a long one. Someone found a working standpipe in the cattle market to we were all drinking from that.

Eventually we arrived at the tiny village school, but before we could go in we had to be inspected by a woman who dunked a comb in a bucket of disinfectant before yanking it through our hair.

She was the nit nurse! Inside the school the local people had set out sandwiches and drinks for us on trestle tables, but I for one didn’t take anything and I don’t think many others did.

The day had long since ceased to be a great adventure; anxiety had set in. “What was happening to us?” we wondered. I wanted my Mum! But kept quiet about it.

Then a lot of adults came in and stood in front, looking us over before pointing at a child and saying “I’ll take that one!” They were the foster parents.

One by one the children were lead away and the anxiety for those not yet chosen increased as they worried about what would happen to them if they remained un-selected.

Meanwhile Jean was keeping a tight hold on to John and me. She had been told by our parents that she and must not allow the three of us to be separated.

But they couldn’t find anyone to take all of us and John was forcibly dragged away from her and led off. Poor Jean was in floods of tears and desperately worried, feeling that she had failed our parents.

Then she and I were bundled into a car and driven to a very remote cottage, where the woman who lived there at first refused to take us in, but after being threatened with prosecution (billeting was compulsory) she opened the door.

The man who had brought us ran to his car and quickly drove away. “You can’t stay here!” she kept saying, but there was nothing we could do about it.

The cottage was very primitive and not at all like what we were used to. It lacked electricity, gas, piped water or flush toilets, the ground floors were of brick and the lavatory consisted of a bucket in a brick shed at the bottom of the overgrown garden.

There was only a single bed for Jean and I to sleep in. Jean cried all night in spite of me force feeding her some of my chocolate bar in an attempt to make her feel better.

One of the first things we had to do when placed in a billet was to send a postcard home showing our new address. We had been given the postcards back in London and told how important they were, because until they received them our parents did not know where we were.

We younger ones were told what to write on the cards, such as “Dear Mum and Dad, I am very happy here and living with nice people, don’t worry about me.” However it seems that I wrote on mine, “We’ve lost John and the stinging nettles got me on the way to the lavatory!”
“I’ve always wanted to live in a sweet shop! “®
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After a couple of weeks the Billeting Officer arrived at the cottage and told us to collect our things as we were being moved into the main village (Pulborough, West Sussex). We found ourselves back near to the railway station.

Jean was billeted with the family of a signalman and, to my great delight; I was taken to live with people who ran a shop that sold sweets and many other things. They lived on the premises.

Apparently I said “I’ve always wanted to live in a sweet shop!” and was told that if I was a good boy and did all the jobs they gave me I could have one pennyworth of sweets every day and two pennyworth on Sundays, but I must never help myself.

The jobs included carrying in the buckets of coal, chopping firewood, feeding the chickens, helping on the allotment and, because they had a tea room, doing mountains of washing up.

Very soon they had a surprise because John was also brought to live there, although they had never been asked. He had been living at an outlying farm and was not very pleased about leaving it.

Jean’s billet with the signalman’s family did not work out and she was again moved. That meant John and I saw very little of her because her new foster parents would not allow us to visit. I don’t know why.

Then I was told that John was being moved to another billet because our foster parents could not manage to look after the two of us. He was not far away and I saw him nearly every day, but it did mean that for the first time in my life I was on my own, with no older brother or my sister to look after me.

Another problem for us boys was that because we had been evacuated with our sisters’ school we did not know any of the teachers or pupils other than Jean. When the Village Hall began to be used for the evacuated girls school John and I had to be taught at the Village School.

Initially, as could be expected, there was friction between the village boys and we evacuees, they shouted at us “Dirty Londoners”, we called then country bumpkins and fights often broke out.

Poor John suffered from bullying much more than me, but I was very upset when I saw chalked up messages saying “Vaccies go home. We don’t want you here!” Of course that had been done by a few silly children and was soon stopped, but we evacuees were all suffering from homesickness and all we wanted to do was to go home, but we couldn’t.

Soon after that we were all chalking up big Vs, that being Churchill’s sign for V for Victory. I was given a V for Victory badge that I wore for years. After a year or so John was moved to the Village Hall School, so I saw even less of him.

As the war dragged on.
Earlier I said that we had been told we would be home for Christmas. Many evacuees’ parents defied the government and did allow their evacuated children to return home for Christmas in 1939.

The result was, as the government had feared; many evacuees never returned to the reception areas. My parents were made of sterner stuff and we were not allowed to go home, which was a great disappointment.

In fact our first Christmas back at home was not until 1942, after which we had to return to Pulborough.

What is not generally known is that when an evacuee reached school leaving age they were no longer classed as being evacuees by the government. The allowance paid to foster parents ceased and it was entirely up their parents what happened next.

Of course most evacuees went home, but some obtained work in the reception areas and stayed with their foster parents. For many children the school leaving age was fourteen, but as Jean went to a Central school she left a year later and went back to London.

During the Battle of Britain the skies over Pulborough were the scene of many dogfights and we saw planes explode and come crashing down.

The German fighter planes would zoom low over the village machine-gunning as they went. Anything was their target, even school children, but fortunately none of us were hit.

Then the blitz began and at night we could see the red glow in the sky of London burning.

Very often a policeman would come into school and an evacuee was taken out, we fully realised that that child was probably being told.

Disaster struck the nearby market town of Petworth, where the boys’ school received a direct hit, killing all the children and their teachers.

The threat of invasion turned Pulborough into a fortified village, surrounded by barbed wire, its roads fitted with tank traps. Huge concrete gun emplacements were built, also machine gun posts and slit trenches made behind roadside walls and in many buildings.

Thousands of Canadian soldiers were camped all around the area. Many would call at the sweet shop tearoom, making more washing up for me!
Homesickness-the ever-present problem.

I believe that all evacuees suffered from homesickness, whether they were being well looked after or not. I know I did. It was always there, no matter how hard you tried to keep it away. But in those day’s homesickness was not acknowledged in the way it is now and evacuees showing signs of it were soon told to stop moping around and asked “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Evacuees became very adept at hiding their inner feelings. You would put on a smiling face and never let anyone see you cry.

That led to many foster parents believing their evacuees were happy, not realising that they were crying themselves to sleep nearly every night.

I managed to hide my homesickness so well that no one knew about it. Apart that is for one occasion that I will never forget. There was to be a concert in the village ball and my foster parents were given a complementary ticket in return for displaying a poster in the shop.

They didn’t want to go so I was given the ticket. Wearing my best suit and tie I felt so important as I was shown to my seat on the night of the concert. It was the first time I had ever been to such an event, especially on my own.

All went well until very near the end when all the caste came on stage, the lights turned to a red glow and they started with some of the songs that my parents used to sing, such as ‘Red sails in the sunset’, ‘The wheel of the wagon is broken’. Then came ‘Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home’. That was too much for me.

I started crying and, try as I might, could not stop. At first no one could see me because the lights were all so low, but then every light in the hail was switched on and the audience stood to sing the National Anthem, the show was over, but I couldn’t stop crying, so I made to get out of the hall as quickly as I could, out into the anonymity of the blackout.

People were looking at me and one woman tried to put her arm round me, but I pushed her away. By the time I had walked back to my billet I had composed myself and showed no signs of any problem, but then I worried for days that someone would come into the shop and say, “Your evacuee was very rude to my wife the other evening”.

But no one did.

On Monday, The local housing authority, issued to us, another house, in Hollydale Road, New Cross, about 1 mile away. A lovely house with a nice big garden, I remember. You were issued with new furniture, from a local depot. This issue was based on your alleged loss, and was free of charge. Many people made "fairy tale" claims about their furniture losses, and wound up with a far better home than they would have had, under normal circumstances. This furniture, was called "Utility" furniture. This meant that it was built to a basic, economic standard, but adequate. This symbol was also present on all clothing, and other household items. It became a very popular word in our conversations.
At this time, our cat, thought that it would be a good idea to have her litter of kittens, in the ward-robe. My Aunt Doll discovered this by mistake. She was getting something out of the ward robe for my Mum. She said "I didn,t know that you had a fox-fur", (all the rage at the time). My Mum replied, "I haven,t." They all realized then, that the cat had taken up residence.
But on the following Wednesday night, disaster, another heavy raid was taking place, I think the raiders were after the Surrey Docks, which were nearby.
My baby sister and I were asleep in a downstairs bedroom in a small bed. My Mother and Gran were in the kitchen. The raid got heavier, and my mother decided to get me and my sister up and bring us into the kitchen.
( We found out later that this bed was completely destroyed and covered in debris, from a collapsed wall and the floor above, another lucky escape).
We had a Morrison shelter, in the kitchen, we were all sheltering under this, when there came an almighty crash, total darkness and smoke again. The coal fire, which was burning opposite, was blown across the room onto my Grans legs, she suffered nasty burns. We went to the front door, the road was in chaos, debris everywhere, fires burning and people screaming (I can hear them even now). We ran down the bottom of the street, dodging the bricks and rubble in the road, into Queens Road, Peckham. Here, on the corner, was Evans Cooks Depositories, a large furniture warehouse, which was being used as the local A.R.P. Centre. We were given hot drinks and first aid, and taken to East Dulwich Hospital, where we stayed for 3 to 4 days. Unfortunately we never saw our cat, or the kittens again.
Air raids used to vary in intensity, some times we had an undisturbed night, other times, we were kept awake all night. Day time raids were also becoming frequent. I can recall coming out of school one day when we heard a loud roar, we looked up and saw a German bomber it had a distinct yellow underside and prominent black crosses, it was being pursued by a R.A.F. fighter. We were usherred quickly back into the school shelter. This bomber jettisoned his load, apparently, to gain speed. Unfortunately, this bomb load fell on a school in Lewisham, killing many children. On another occasion, a Saturday afternoon, a large bomb fell on New Cross, Woolworths, killing many people. Also opposite Lewisham Clock, Tower fell another, very large bomb, causing equal havoc.
We were running out of vacant houses now, so we were allocated a portion of the local unused school hall, which we shared with many other families. We used this as a base, until we were found a house in Cator Street ,Peckham, which we accepted gratefully. This house had a large garden, in which we kept chickens and rabbits, a lot of people did this, for extra food. Although we became too attached to these "pets" to eat them. One of our chickens had to live in our dining-room. My Mother said that it had rheumatism and had to be kept warm. How could you eat this creature? But we had the eggs, when they laid them. I was afraid to get these eggs from the nest. We had a large cockerel on guard, and he would attack you. I would liked to have eaten him, but I can,t remember whether we did.
We spent the rest of the war years here, ( with the exception of another "bomb out" and partial destruction, in 1943 ).
We used to always have lovely Christmases, during these years. A big party in my Aunt Dolls house, was the high-light. This house was in East Surrey Grove, One of the grown-ups would dress up as Santa Clause, there was a present for all, and party games. One Xmas, my cousin Lenny, and I, took a precious half bottle of Cointreau off a shelf, and drank it. We were violently sick. I have not touched a drop since. But they were lovely parties, I shall always remember them.
Unfortunately East Surrey Grove was the scene of yet another tragedy. My Aunt,s neighbours, the Hughes family, just a few doors away, did not have an air-shelter. They asked their neighbours, the Wrights, if they could share their shelter. It was in their rear garden. The bombing was quite heavy at this time. But a couple of nights later, this shelter received a direct hit, and the occupants were all killed. It was a terrible incident, but unfortunately similar events were occurring, all over London, at the time. My Aunt Doll,s next door neighbour, was on her way to the dentists in Trafalger Avenue, one day. A land-mine, ( a large bomb device ), fell in this road, and she was never found. Her neighbour on the other side, Eva King, was also bombed but she survived, and she is still with us today. Aunt Doll must have had a charmed life. My Uncle Toms, pal, Bill Derby, who he was in the Army, with, lost his entire family in an air-raid. What a dreadful thing to happen, especially, when you were serving abroad. Tragedy seemed all around at that time.
I was always "running errands" in those days. Whilst the grown-ups were playing cards, (which they did night and day) I was either getting drinks from the off-licence, or queuing up for groceries, or getting food for the chickens which we kept. Food, of course was now strictly rationed, and we had to survive on ridiculously small amounts of it. Two ounces of cheese, and butter, one egg, four ounces of bacon etc. per week. Miniscule, but apparently, enough to live on. There seemed to be queues every where for all sorts of reasons, whether it be for food or cinema seats or newspapers, almost any thing that you bought, you had to queue for, especially, in the rare event of unrationed food items. This caused the largest queues of all. This constant shortage of food, was eased, slightly, by the installing of Government run restaurants. We had one in a mission hall in Meeting House Lane, the next street to ours. They also, occupied empty office blocks, elsewhere. In the City, there was a large one on London Bridge, and there were many more in other suitable venues. In these establishments, you could buy a ticket for six pence, which you surrendered, at the counter, in exchange for a substantial dinner and mug of tea. A fourpenny ticket would buy you a pudding. Often treacle, or jam. Good basic food. These places were very popular, and large queues would form for these meals. Often gas supplies were cut-off due to the bombing, so you often couldn,t cook, even if you had the food. Our daily diet was also supplemented by National Dried Milk, Orange Juice Concentrate and Cod Liver Oil, supplied from the local "Food Office". These items were free of charge on production of a suitable Ration Book.
At school, we would all take our own spoons, and just before break, our teacher would take from her cupboard, an enormous tin of "Malt". We would queue, and she would dip our spoons in it, twist it around, and quickly proffer it into our mouths, it was delicious, and we loved it. This was also rationed. When the tin was nearly empty, chosen children, were allowed to scrape the remains from the tin, an extra treat for some lucky ones. We were all given daily, small bottles of milk, a third of a pint, I believe they were. It was lovely in summertime, but in winter, it was very often frozen solid. We would thaw it out under our jumpers. Other less pleasant, services, the school provided, was periodic visits, by the school dentist. Ugh! They would poke about in our mouths, and I am sure cause more trouble than they ever cured. They would recommend treatment for us to have. But these notes they gave to us, for our parents, never arrived home. Also "Nitty-Nora" would arrive and proceed to comb our hair, with a very fine steel comb, onto a piece of tissue paper. Looking for nits or fleas. This comb would stick into our heads and it hurt. In all, a most unpleasant experience. What with this, and the bombing, it wasn,t good enough!. Innoculations, were also now, being introduced, too, The first was against Diptheria, which was rife at the time.
As children, we also spent a lot of our time outside pubs, waiting for our parents to emerge. An occasional treat was a glass of ginger wine or an arrow-root biscuit from a jar on the counter. We would peer into these pubs, Gloomy and smoke filled, full of laughter and swearing. What dens they seemed, but an escape, I suppose from the constant air-raids. We would wait for some time, get fed up and go off with our mates for hours. Nobody seemed to be bothered. Our parents didn,t seem to care where we were.
As children we would continue to explore fresh "bombed ruins". Halfway down Trafalger Avenue, there was an enormous crater. Half filled with water and smelling of gas from broken pipes. There was always the smell of escaping gas and brick dust and burst drains. It seemed to permeate the air everywhere. Next to this crater, on its side was number 63 'bus. Empty, we were told, when the bomb dropped. But then they would say that when you think about. Not good for morale, to admit to bus loads of people being injured. A lot of facts were kept dark at that time.
Anyway, opposite this house, in Cator Street, was a large school, which was partly destroyed by bombing. It also had a very large play-ground. This playground contained four surface air-raid shelters, we used to sometimes use these, but they were very damp and unpopular. This playground also featured strongly in our playdays. In the ground was a very large puddle, almost a small pond in size. To us it seemed like a lake. We used to sail our small home-made boats in this muddy water. Rescuing them , meant that our feet were nearly always soaking wet, and our socks and shoes, much to the annoyance of our long-suffering parents. We would skate pieces of slate across this pond and watch it spin up and across. One of these impaled into my leg, causing a nasty gash, and I spent the rest of the day in hospital having stitches. Raymond was the culprit, I wonder if he remembers?
We used to explore the fascinating interior of this very large old Victorian school, It had lots of dark corridors and small rooms. This is where we would set up our "camps" and store our little secret goodies. We used to climb up and out onto the roof, which was over 80 feet from the ground, perch fearlessly on the outside, on the rafters, (the roof slates had been blown off in the bombing), and admire the view of London. You could see St.Pauls, and Tower Bridge from here. Our parents would "call us down", but we would hide and ignore these requests. My Dad, would often call up, for us to come down. He was obviously very worried, about our predicament. But he was also ignored. How could I treat this lovely man in this manner. I must have been a "sod". Sometimes we were actually chased by the Police, but they couldn,t catch us, we were too agile. This was even greater fun, we thought.
We noticed that this roof was lined in part with lead flashing. We removed this over a period of some weeks, rolled it up and stored in one of the play-ground sheds. It was very hard and heavy work, and of course dangerous. We negotiated a price for this plunder from "Smales", the local scrap merchant. This was going to be our holiday spending money. We went to collect the rolled up lead from the shed one morning, and discovered to our horror, that it had disappeared. Somebody had discovered our "treasure" and sold it instead. What a dissapointment. We consoled ourselves , then by stripping all the brass gas fittings, from the school rooms and sold them instead. We only got a pittance for this metal. We had been exploited by this mean scrapmerchant.

The Blitz — both frightening and exciting
Denis Gardner

Not quite 14 years old when the Blitz started in 1940,
I was living at 19 Brayards Road, Peckham, South East London.
The Blitz started in earnest on the 7th of September, I think it was a Saturday and I had to get to the Nunhead railway station to pick up the evening News papers, which were thrown on to the platform from the train as it passed through the station. { The Star, Evening News and The Standard}
During an air raid earlier, a stick of bombs had hit this area and houses were blown down. Dust was everywhere. Gas mains in the streets were on fire. Fire engines were everywhere and hoses across the streets.
Air raid wardens tried to rescue those in the bombed-out houses, ambulances had sirens at full blast, police and air raid wardens kept people away from certain areas which were liable to collapse or had an unexploded bomb under them, and dust filled the airThe scenes of destruction, fires and mayhem were both frightening and exciting. That night they came back and bombed the East End of London, the dock area.
From Peckham we could see the huge red glow in the sky as the dockland areas with all their stockpiles of sugar, wines, rum, timber and other perishable goods burnt.
Peckham is only a few seconds flying time from the East End of London, so any pilot who was a split second off his target or was picked up by the searchlights (and lots were), just dropped their bombs to lighten the aircraft, in order to escape.
Thus thousands of homes in the surrounding suburbs were hit.
The fires in dockland burnt for days. From this day on London was bombed for 74 consecutive nights, (and sometimes during the day as well,) except for a couple of nights when the weather was too bad for air raids.
This meant going down our shelter each night and staying there, except for trips to the toilet during the quiet periods. We also had a couple who lived next door who used to come into our shelter, so there were six of us trying to sleep in this small area, and then next morning go to work, if it was still there.
One night the houses behind the house next door to us in Blackpool Street were hit. Luckily it was only a small bomb, a 250 pounder, and it demolished the top halves of both houses. When this happens the dust from the explosion is so thick it can cause death to anyone trapped.
After the explosion we always went through the drill of calling out all our neighbours’ names to see if they were all without injury. Luckily they had all survived in their Anderson shelters.
Not everyone had an Anderson shelter, some had a shelter that used the kitchen table, and made it into a sort of cage. Not very good if the house was hit, because dust then became the killer.
After any raid, everyone had their favourite story to tell. Ours was of that night. After the bomb struck we waited a while, then came out of the shelter to look around. Mum and Dad were outside and then there was another explosion.
Dad swung out his arm saying get back in the shelter and he hit Mum on the nose, which bled profusely. To stop the bleeding he gave her the towel from the outside toilet, the towel used to clean the toilet seat. I think that tale was told many times.
We lost the windows at the back of the house.
An air raid is horrific, not just from the bombs but also from the anti-aircraft guns that make a terrible noise, and the shrapnel that rains down afterwards.
Also lots of our own shells came down and exploded on contact with the ground.
Our worst fright came from the huge guns that were mounted on mobile railway platforms. The noise when these fired was terrifying: it was worse than hearing the screaming of a falling bomb.
It was said “ if” you heard the screaming of the bomb then that one was not meant for you.
These guns were supposed to help our morale, as there was not much opposition to the raiders in the early days. The railway line from Rye Lane to Nunhead ran only a few hundred yards away.
It was during one of these night raids that I got my first official cigarette. Dad and I were standing in the doorway of number 19, looking out to the street, guns were firing, search lights were probing the sky and it was nearly as bright as day time.
He rolled himself a cigarette and also one for me. I forget the exact words he said but the cigarette was to give me some form of courage from what we were witnessing. The street had just been hit by some fire-bombs.
They had all been extinguished by the people who lived in the houses. We had been lucky as they had missed our house but we all still had to be watchful. From the doorway we could see along the street, and the first sign of a glow in a window was the warning that a fire was starting.
Everyone was looking out for their neighbours. The friendship and camaraderie that exuded during the Blitz was wonderful to behold. Everyone was friendly and ready to help. Adversity brings out the best in people.
While this was happening at night we were also having some air raids during the day. This was the period when Goering had told Hitler that his Luftwaffe would bring England to her knees and she would ask for an armistice.
Though the bombing of London caused widespread damage, the bombing did not cause enough damage to commerce and industry or to the morale of the people to bring Britain nearer to surrender.
One man in England at this time thought the English were finished and that was J.F. Kennedy's father, Joseph, who was then the United States Ambassador to the Court of St.James. It was good that President Roosevelt did not agree with him, though it was still another year before America was to be drawn into the war.
As most of the thinking in America was that England was done for, their great worry was that the Royal Navy would fall into German hands.
The newspapers were telling us that the R.A.F. today shot down 144 planes for the loss of only a few of our own planes, whereas in later years we found out that the correct total had been 71 and 16 of ours lost for that particular day.
Residents of London adapted a new style of life that included sleeping every night in a damp air raid shelter underground. The cold and damp brought on a 10% increase in tuberculosis, sometimes more dangerous than the raids.
The German invasion of England was first planned for the 21st of September, but after this it was put back, and then eventually abandoned.
It was during this time that the L.D.V. (Local Defence Force) started, later renamed the Home Guard (Dads Army). They were armed with some First World War rifles, pikes and broom handles.
One of their duties in Peckham was to guard the canal, the Grand Surrey Canal. All signposts were taken down so the German troops wouldn't know where they were when they invaded.
For myself and all of my mates it was a great time of adventure. Because of the air raids lots of children, who had come back to London during the phoney war, were now being evacuated again.
Some of the kids who had rich parents were being sent to Canada. One boat that had 90 evacuees on board was the City of Benares. On the 17th September it was sunk by a German submarine during a raging gale in the Atlantic Ocean. Only a few of the children survived.
This was all happening during the months of September, October and November, 1940. At the end of September I left the paper shop at Nunhead and started another job with a paper shop nearer home.
The woman who owned this shop was a either a widow or her husband was in the forces for I never saw him. She did not have an Anderson shelter in the back garden but the hallway of the house had been reinforced to make a shelter.
She had said if a raid started during the time I was delivering papers I was to make my way back to the shop and take shelter in the hallway of her house. On the morning of the 15th October the siren sounded so I finished the deliveries in the street I was in, and then I started to make my way back to the shop.
On the way I could see German aircraft in the sky and I could see bombs leaving the planes. It was fascinating. There were other people around all staring at the sky. I carried on cycling into Caulfield Road, for the shop was at the bottom of this street where it met Lugard Road. The next thing I remember was being put in an ambulance and being taken to St.Giles Hospital. A bomb had hit a house as I was cycling past. I had cuts on the forehead and back of the head. Also my wrist was cut and my arm was in a sling.
They told me afterwards that my great concern was whether my bike was O.K. I was an outpatient at St Giles until the19th November. (I still have the certificate from the hospital).
It was most tragic at the hospital that morning, as a food factory in Camberwell had been hit and lots of young girls, the workers, had lost their lives or were severely hurt.
I did not go back to delivering papers any more. I was now the local hero, head bandaged and arm in a sling. A woman came up to me one day and said that she had pulled a kerbstone off my head.
The raids were still happening but we were getting used to them and life still had to go on. (No counselling like they give to any victim nowadays, it was called internal fortitude then.)
During all this time Mum would still have to go shopping and queue at each shop to get the meagre rations, and some times after queuing she would be told they had sold out. I think in those far off days each housewife flirted with the butcher to try and get a rabbit or some poultry that wasn't rationed.

In 1944 I volunteered for the RAF and was called up on the 15th May 1944, served in India and Burma. for two and a half years. Demobbed December 1947
Am now a member of The RAF Association of Queensland.
Denis Gardner, Brisbane, Australia, 2002

The Blitz — Both frightening and exciting
Denis Gardner

Not quite 14 years old when the Blitz started in 1940, I was living at 19 Brayards Road, Peckham, South East London.

The Blitz started in earnest on the 7th of September, I think it was a Saturday and I had to get to the Nunhead railway station to pick up the evening News papers, which were thrown on to the platform from the train as it passed through the station. {The Star, Evening News and The Standard}

During an air raid earlier, a stick of bombs had hit this area and houses were blown down. Dust was everywhere. Gas mains in the streets were on fire. Fire engines were everywhere and hoses across the streets.

Air raid wardens tried to rescue those in the bombed-out houses, ambulances had sirens at full blast, police and air raid wardens kept people away from certain areas which were liable to collapse or had an unexploded bomb under them, and dust filled the air. The scenes of destruction, fires and mayhem were both frightening and exciting. That night they came back and bombed the East End of London, the dock area.

From Peckham we could see the huge red glow in the sky as the dockland areas with all their stockpiles of sugar, wines, rum, timber and other perishable goods burnt.
Peckham is only a few seconds flying time from the East End of London, so any pilot who was a split second off his target or was picked up by the searchlights (and lots were), just dropped their bombs to lighten the aircraft, in order to escape.

Thus thousands of homes in the surrounding suburbs were hit.

The fires in dockland burnt for days. From this day on London was bombed for 74 consecutive nights, (and sometimes during the day as well,) except for a couple of nights when the weather was too bad for air raids.

This meant going down our shelter each night and staying there, except for trips to the toilet during the quiet periods. We also had a couple who lived next door who used to come into our shelter, so there were six of us trying to sleep in this small area, and then next morning go to work, if it was still there.

One night the houses behind the house next door to us in Blackpool Street were hit. Luckily it was only a small bomb, a 250 pounder, and it demolished the top halves of both houses. When this happens the dust from the explosion is so thick it can cause death to anyone trapped.

After the explosion we always went through the drill of calling out all our neighbours’ names to see if they were all without injury. Luckily they had all survived in their Anderson shelters.
Not everyone had an Anderson shelter, some had a shelter that used the kitchen table, and made it into a sort of cage. Not very good if the house was hit, because dust then became the killer.

After any raid, everyone had there favourite story to tell. Ours was of that night. After the bomb struck we waited a while, then came out of the shelter to look around. Mum and Dad were outside and then there was another explosion.

Dad swung out his arm saying get back in the shelter and he hit Mum on the nose, which bled profusely. To stop the bleeding he gave her the towel from the outside toilet, the towel used to clean the toilet seat. I think that tale was told many times.

We lost the windows at the back of the house.

An air raid is horrific, not just from the bombs but also from the anti-aircraft guns that make a terrible noise, and the shrapnel that rains down afterwards.
Also lots of our own shells came down and exploded on contact with the ground.

Our worst fright came from the huge guns that were mounted on mobile railway platforms. The noise when these fired was terrifying: it was worse than hearing the screaming of a falling bomb.

It was said 'if' you heard the screaming of the bomb then that one was not meant for you.

These guns were supposed to help our morale, as there was not much opposition to the raiders in the early days. The railway line from Rye Lane to Nunhead ran only a few hundred yards away.

It was during one of these night raids that I got my first official cigarette. Dad and I were standing in the doorway of number 19, looking out to the street, guns were firing, search lights were probing the sky and it was nearly as bright as day time.
He rolled himself a cigarette and also one for me. I forget the exact words he said but the cigarette was to give me some form of courage from what we were witnessing. The street had just been hit by some fire-bombs.

They had all been extinguished by the people who lived in the houses. We had been lucky as they had missed our house but we all still had to be watchful. From the doorway we could see along the street, and the first sign of a glow in a window was the warning that a fire was starting.
Everyone was looking out for their neighbours. The friendship and camaraderie that exuded during the Blitz was wonderful to behold. Everyone was friendly and ready to help. Adversity brings out the best in people.

While this was happening at night we were also having some air raids during the day. This was the period when Goering had told Hitler that his Luftwaffe would bring England to her knees and she would ask for an armistice.

Though the bombing of London caused widespread damage, the bombing did not cause enough damage to commerce and industry or to the morale of the people to bring Britain nearer to surrender.
One man in England at this time thought the English were finished and that was J.F. Kennedy's father, Joseph, who was then the United States Ambassador to the Court of St.James. It was good that President Roosevelt did not agree with him, though it was still another year before America was to be drawn into the war.

As most of the thinking in America was that England was done for, their great worry was that the Royal Navy would fall into German hands.

News headlines were telling us that the R.A.F. today shot down 144 planes for the loss of only a few of our own planes, whereas in later years we found out that the correct total had been 71 and 16 of ours lost for that particular day.
Residents of London adapted a new style of life that included sleeping every night in a damp air raid shelter underground. The cold and damp brought on a 10% increase in tuberculosis, sometimes more dangerous than the raids.

The German invasion of England was first planned for the 21st of September, but after this it was put back, and then eventually abandoned.

It was during this time that the L.D.V. (Local Defence Force) started, later renamed the Home Guard (Dads Army). They were armed with some First World War rifles, pikes and broom handles.

One of their duties in Peckham was to guard the canal, the Grand Surrey Canal. All signposts were taken down so the German troops wouldn't know where they were when they invaded.

For myself and all of my mates it was a great time of adventure. Because of the air raids lots of children, who had come back to London during the phoney war, were now being evacuated again.

Some of the kids who had rich parents were being sent to Canada. One boat that had 90 evacuees on board was the City of Benares.
On the 17th September it was sunk by a German submarine during a raging gale in the Atlantic Ocean. Only a few of the children survived.

This was all happening during the months of September, October and November, 1940.
At the end of September I left the paper shop at Nunhead and started a morning paper round with a newsagent nearer home.
The woman who owned this shop was either a widow or her husband was in the forces for I never saw him.

She did not have an Anderson shelter in the back garden but the hallway of the house had been reinforced to make a shelter.
She had said if a raid started during the time I was delivering the papers I was to make my way back to the shop and take shelter in the hallway of her house.
On the morning of the 15th October the siren sounded so I finished the deliveries in the street I was in, and then I started to make my way back to the shop.

On the way I could see German aircraft in the sky and the see bombs leaving the planes. It was fascinating. There were other people around all staring at the sky. I carried on cycling into Caulfield Road, for the shop was at the bottom of this street where it met Lugard Road.

The next thing I remember was being put in an ambulance and being taken to St.Giles Hospital,Camberwell.

A bomb had hit a house as I was cycling past. I had cuts on the forehead and back of the head. Also my wrist was cut and my arm was injured.

They told me afterwards that my greatest concern was whether my bike was O.K. I was an outpatient at St Giles until the 19th November. (I still have the certificate from the hospital).

It was most tragic at the hospital that morning, for a food factory in Camberwell had been hit and lots of young girls, the workers, had lost their lives or were severely hurt.

I did not go back to delivering papers any more. I was now the local hero, head bandaged and arm in a sling. A woman came up to me one day and said that she had pulled a kerbstone off my head.

The raids were still happening but we were getting used to them and life still had to go on. (no counselling given in those far off day it was called internal fortitude then.)

During all this time Mum would still have to go shopping and queue at each shop to get the meagre rations, and some times after queuing she would be told they had sold out. I think in those days each housewife flirted with the butcher to try and get a rabbit or some poultry that wasn't rationed.

In January 1941, just 14 years and 3 months old, I started work as an Instruement Makers Improver At H.W.Sullivans, Leo Street, just off the Old Kent Roa, working there until I volunteered for the R.A..F. in early 1944 and was called up on the 15th May1944, served in India and Burma. for two and a half years. Demobbed December 1947
I am now a member of The RAF Association of Queensland.

Denis Gardner, Brisbane, Australia, 2002