Bombs dropped in the borough of: Wandsworth

A group of housewives were chatting together in the shade, sheltering from the fierce sun beneath the railway bridge crossing Battersea High Street that very hot day in May 1940.
We three twelve year old boys were approaching the bridge having come out of school an hour or so before. We had been enjoying the hustle of the shops and stalls of the High Street and were now making our ways home.
We heard the noise of an approaching train.

This was the West London Extension line linking the south of England with the midlands and north, here crossing the Thames from Battersea to Chelsea.
Normally there was little traffic and Battersea Station was closed for the duration, but for the last couple of days trains had been coming through regularly, but always from the south.
People along the route stopped, watched them go by and waved if a soldier happened to lean from a carriage window.
Yesterday a soldier threw some coins as we children waved. We scrambled for them in the gutter and I picked up the first foreign coin I had ever seen, a brass and shining 1 Franc piece. My pal found a coin with a hole drilled through it. He thought it had been shot, but at school our master said it was a way the French changed the value of coins.

There must have been a signal since the driver applied the brakes and in a flurry of dust and steam the train squealed to a halt. The engine now well over the bridge began panting and puffing as it paused in the sunshine reflecting the exertion of pulling a large number of carriages.
The housewives came out from under the bridge and with us lads and a few more passers by together we looked up at the stationary train.
The carriage windows were down obviously the passengers needed the cooler air, and to our surprise a soldier appeared. A head of unkempt hair, a grimey face and a scruffy army tunic. Eyes blinking from the sunshine he looked down on our silent group.
The youngest of the housewives called up to him, "Are you all right?"
The soldier looked at us, at the houses and shops as if in a dream. He struggled to reply, then said, "I'm gasping for a fag."

"Cigarette? Yes I've got one." The young lady opened her handbag and extracted a packet.
She lifted her arm as if to throw the packet up to the soldier but realised that it would be futile, the bridge perhaps 30-feet up, a lightweight packet could'nt be thrown that far. Thinking quickly she called, "I'll bring these up to you," and she walked over to the side of the bridge and tried to climb the steep embankment. A daunting task.
She looked at us boys. "You lads, come over here and help me up." It was a command.We moved quickly but then I paused since nailed to the wall of the embankment was a notice.

SOUTHERN RAILWAY

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

"Don't just stand there. Come on." She was very determined and I obeyed.
But others had also moved over to the ypung lady. They were offering packets of cigarettes.
"Take these." A packet of Players thrust into her bag.
"And these." Woodbines, Craven A, Park Drive, a dozen packets for the soldiers.

So we heaved, pulled and tugged and to the cheers and encouragement of many soldiers now leaning from windows we got up onto the track.
That lady didn't stop, she moved onto the bridge with us lads in close pursuit, to where our first soldier was leaning from the carriage window. Taking a packet from her bag she reached up, he opened the carriage door and greatfully took the cigarettes.
The remaining packets were distributed in a flash.
A sergeant had jumped down onto the trackside and told us in no uncertain terms to go back down. He emphasised that it was dangerous and we began to edge away.
However the lady stood her ground and we heard her ask if there were any Air Force men on the train. "My husband was over there, I've not heard from him...."
"RAF," the sergeant snarled, "they flew home days ago."
Suddenly she looked helpless, miserable.
I felt somebody tugging my sleeve. My pal was pointing down the line of carriages.
Through the dust I could see he was pointing to a blue clad figure leaning from a carriage window.
"Look missus, RAF!"
Together we ran. Through the murk of the dust and steam, up off the track, on to the wooden platform of Battersea Station, past several carriages, and then....
this was blue but not RAF blue, it was the blue of the French Army uniform.
The lady moved over on to a platform seat and I think she began to weep.
I decided it was time to go home.

A chain of people now climbed the embankment from street level, passing the contents of shopping bags, cigarettes, drinks, food, for the benefit of the waiting troops. A policeman seemed to be supervising the distribution and as I passed he winked and said, "Well done, lad."

Mum asked me where I had been when I got home.
I told her.
She put on her hat. Checked her bag for cigarettes.
"Where are you going mum?" I asked.
"Down the High Street."

This story was submitted to the People`s War site by Alan Magson of Age Concern Bradford and District on behalf of Malcolm Waters and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site`s terms and conditions.

The war against Germany was declared in 1939.

My parents had already separated, fortunate for me I stayed with my Father and my Sister Nora went with Mum.

Nora was really my half sister 6 years my senior yet I never looked on her other than my whole sister.
Nora’s name was Robinson, my Mother’s maiden name. Nora eventually left home to join a circus.

Dad, an ex regular soldier, who served with the Northumberland Fusiliers in the first world war, there was very little he could not put his hands to. He baked all our bread, a brilliant gardener, was a very good cook and kept our home spic and span.

Sadly he rarely talked about his life so I really never found out much about him. I know he was a Geordie and had a brother Billy, but what part of Newcastle I have no idea.

End of January 1940 was a very bad winter. Dad jumped off the running board of a bus, slipped and struck his head on the kerb. He had a stroke and died on the 10th February in St Johns Hospital, Keighley.
Going down Airwarth Street my Uncle Joe told me my Dad was dead. His last words were the start of my Christian name MAL then he passed on. I must emphasise the point my Dad was a brick, he lived for me. I did cry at night when I was alone, realising I would never see or hear his face or voice again.

My life changed so much that at times I lived with my schoolmate Ken Smith, we both worked in Edmondson`s Mill, Keighley as doffers. The foreman threw a bobbin at me as I was sat on a bobbin box and I threw as many back at him and got the sack.` I left to work in a steel works shovelling steel into a foundry, then I did some lumber jacking at Oakworth, Keighley. I ended up at Doublestones Farm in service above Silsden for the Fothergills. I spent six months from 5am until 11pm at night building walls, shearing sheep, dipping sheep, harnessing the horse, burying dead sheep, milking the cows, feeding and mucking out.

Keighley was normal, one hardly knew a war was on, working on a farm was even more remote. After six months farming, I asked Fothergill, can I go to Keighley Fair on Saturday afternoon. He said, “what am I going to do without you”. So I went to the fair and never returned to farming.

Mum and I went to London after the Blitz, even then night and day bombing was daily. You could hear the distinctive drone of Jerry as they gradually got nearer and the bombs got nearer. When we arrived in Fulham we had no money, looking for a Mrs Quinn who had left her flat leaving no forwarding address so Mum and I went knocking on doors until a Mrs Lampkin put us up. Mum was probably desperate having no money and no job. I must have been a burden to her.

I went to school at Ackmar Road with some of Mrs Lampkin’s boys. I adapted to life quickly and made the best of it. Mum then decided London was too dangerous, so she sent me to Ponterdawee South Wales as an evacuee. I well remember saying good bye to Mum stood on Paddington Station with my overcoat on, a label with my name and destination, my gas mask, identity card, ration books and teachers who were taking care of us. We arrived at night time in a schoolroom in Ponterdawee where our names were called out, a person stepped forward and took my hand a man and his son were my carers. I cannot remember their names, but his son was about my age so he taught me the ways of the Welsh. I quickly adapted getting free coal from the slag heaps. Taking the cows to the bull and getting diced cheese with brown sauce. I enjoyed my stay in Wales. I was treated very well.

Mum had established herself in Fulham she had a flat, then Nora came back into our lives again. She had blossomed into a bonny young woman who looked after me. At Ackmar Road schoolboys used to play pitch and toss, this was new to me as in Yorkshire gambling was not even on the cards. I can remember on Christmas going out singing carols to get Mum a Christmas card. She cried.

Nightly, the sirens went the whole sky was lit up with searchlights, I got fed up with getting out of bed. When Nora shouted of me to go down into the basement I said okay, you go on, I’ll follow you.

I could hear the bombers getting nearer and nearer, still lying in bed. Then I heard a whistling bomb that landed too close for comfort, my first reaction was to dive under the bed, my next reaction was to get down them stairs post haste. Nora was stood looking out of the back window, we were surrounded by buildings on fire. We were transfixed in awe at the blazing buildings, fire engine bells ringing, police cars whistles blowing, but we soon shot into the basement. Mum was on night work but the old lady always made us welcome. It got so bad at times we went to sleep on Piccadilly Station 75 feet below ground. Nora joined the ATS, I saw very little of her till later in life. One of the most frightening experiences was the mobile, ack ack guns that went off right outside our front door shaking all the windows. Most houses had stirrup pumps and buckets of sand just in case an incendiary came close.

Mum remarried a Peter Johnston from Tipperary In Ireland, he was an RSM in the Royal Engineers. He always respected me and was a real good family man, he always brought something home for me, but I am really a loyalist. I loved my own Father so much I could not accept another Dad, sad in a way, because he was a father of eight children who went in the Children’s Home in Keighley. They were all good children who’s mother fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Mum and I went to live in Townhead Glasgow to be near Peter who was stationed in Inverary. I went to school in Townhead I joined the Boys Brigade and was also a Lather Boy in a Barbers Shop. We got a bus from Robertson Street to Inverary went up the Rest and be thankful to arrive to see some real military movement. Assault craft, vehicles running backwards and forwards obviously getting ready to go to Dieppe. I slept in a huge bell tent while Mum and Peter went off to a Hotel. Peter was a very musical man he ran the Isle of Capri Band up Woodhouse, Keighley, an accordion and kazoo band who were very very good, they won many cups and shields, parading them around the Wood house Estate (pre War)

Back in London again in OngarRoad, Mum had a flat. Peter committed bigamy so Mum was on her own again. I remember going back to Keighley to spend my last days at Holycroft Board School, then back to London again. I got a job with the Civil Defence at Chelsea Town Hall and joined the London Irish Rifles Cadet Corps at Chelsea Barracks as a cadet soldier. As a messenger boy in the Civil Defence I cycled round the streets in uniform and my steel helmet on to various people of notoriety including the Chelsea Pensioners. Mum got a job in Peterborough looking after a man and his son, again his son was around my age, he was a brilliant young artist. He drew Peterborough Cathedral very professional. One day I went to Yewsley right next to the American Fortress Base. Looking up in the sky I could see and recognise a Jerry plane diving straight toward the street I was in. I ran like hell resting behind an Oak tree in a church yard watching the plane strafing the main street with cannon shelling, a close call.

I also worked in Dubiliers factory at Acton, making gallon petrol cans and we listened to " Music While you Work ". I also in Grosvenor House,Park Lane as a paticia`s assistant and the Americans occupied the hotel in the war years.

While in the Civil Defence I saw vapour trails of V2 rockets that landed somewhere toward Westminster. I went to Romford one night to stay at Harry`s, my mate`s house, as usual the sirens went moaning Minnie. It was like watching a film show looking over London with the bombers dropping canisters full of incendiaries. I commented to Harry, someone is getting a pasting, I found out Fulham had been hit again, a friend of Mum’s showed me his burnt shoes caused by kicking an incendiary out of the house. Everywhere was devastation, doors burned, windows blown. One chap, playing the piano had an incendiary pass through the roof straight between him and the piano into the next floor. I went to Putney one day, as normal, sirens sounded, my bus stopped on Putney Bridge, coming up the Thames was a V1, a buzz bomb, I watched it from the top deck coming right above the bus. The engine stopped. I watched it glide into a block of flats at Barns Bridge. I had the windows open, I felt the blast on my face from approximately half a mile away. One day I saw a squadron of 13 V1’s passing overhead in Gloucester Road, South Kensington.

The Army used to train on Harden Moor leaving unexploded bombs lying around. Two of my schoolmates playing with an unexploded PIAT bomb were blown to pieces in Lund Park, Keighley. Another friend Alec Joinson tried to saw through a grenade detonator, his face and arms were pitted with splinters he was covered in Sal volatile and was partially deaf.

I was very very lucky boy to be here to tell my story, I picked up a pop bottle that looked like bad eggs, fortunate for me I did not have a bottle opener so I through the bottle into a quarry. You should have seen the bright yellow phosphorous I’d picked up a Molotov cocktail, a phosphorous bomb.

Nora, my Sister, was in an air raid shelter that was hit and became flooded. She developed pneumonia then consumption. She spent many years in hospital and despite doctors warnings she had two children. At 43 neglected by her husband, she died and was cremated in Norwood Crematorium. She was a very very good mother who wasted away to a living skeleton. She spent many months in Brompton Hospital, I made all the funeral arrangements, the husband pleaded ignorance. I always enjoyed going to see her in London when I returned to Keighley later in life. I loved Nora very dearly and she never complained about all she suffered. Tommy Junior and Jenny still live in London, at Herne Hill. I occasionally call to see them.

The spirit of the Londoners in those dark days was second to none. We sang on the stations. I sang on Keighley Station when Ken Smith’s Father in Full Service marching order was off to Dieppe. Everyone sang “ wish me luck as you wave me goodbye” and “for a while we must part but remember me sweetheart “. Vera Lynne, Ann Shelton, Tommy Trinder, Arthur Askey, Flanagan and Allen and the Crazy Gang all made for good entertainment. Not forgetting George Formby and Grace Fields.

I am now 76 years old. Today I doubt the law would look on a single man like my Dad and the Gentleman in Wales as being capable of taking care of a family.

We were utterly exhausted most of the time as we were continually confined to a communal air raid shelter at night, especially during the Blitz in 1940 and 1941. Strangely enough my brother Ken, sister Margaret and I experienced a mixture of fear from the bombs, together with the excitement of being able to stay up each night in the shelter with other families. With our mother we used to take our cheese sandwiches (which always seemed scrumptious) and Smiths crisps containing little blue bags of salt, together with a bottle of Tizer in the shelter and have midnight feasts with the other children which was exciting and alleviated some of the fear. We got very little sleep on our hard bunk beds, but no one did as we were usually woken up by the screaming, wailing air raid siren. We only had candles in the shelter so it was dimly lit and also damp and musty. The boy on the bunk below me, Sidney, complained that I was always dropping lumps of cheese from my sandwiches on to his bunk which he strongly objected to as he loathed cheese. Later in the war, sometimes at night when the air raid siren sounded, neighbours came along and bedded down in our hall. There was one man who always wore his tin helmet and Ken and I could never stop giggling about it. All the poor man was trying to do was to be prepared and to protect himself in an emergency but it was a huge joke to us. One night there was a bomb which exploded very near to us, the blast of which shattered a number of our windows. The heavy fanlight over the hall door became dislodged and was hanging on its side only a few feet from where Ken was sleeping. He had a lucky escape and may well have been glad to wear the man's tin helmet after all!

When the dreaded air raid siren sounded suddenly wafting through the air, screeching out its deafening high and low wailing, warning sounds, we were full of fear and trepidation. Wherever we were, we immediately stopped what we were doing, snatched up our few belongings if they were nearby and dashed to the nearest air raid shelter, wondering if we would ever come out alive. It was a nightmare for my mother having 3 young children to worry about all the time. There were 3 types of air raid shelter. Those which were concrete or brick-built and were outside for the public, the corrugated, galvanised iron Anderson shelter which was partially sunk in people's gardens away from the house, and the Morrison which was like a steel box indoors.

We lived through the London Blitz in 1940 and 1941 and many nights we went through hell with fires blazing and bombs raining down. The sky was continually lit by the glare of the fires, some of which were caused by incendiary bombs which had been extinguished by stirrup pumps. Air raid wardens were equipped with these for such an emergency. Also searchlights illuminated the sky. The wail of the air raid sirens and the drone of enemy aircraft, the bang bang of the anti-aircraft batteries and the shrill whistles blown by the Air raid wardens were deafening. Many people were left homeless and exhausted and often experienced long term shock. They used to pick their way through debris after a raid and had nowhere to go. Dazed families were accommodated in rest centres, in school buildings and church halls all of which were staffed by volunteers. However, despite all the adversity, people relentlessly soldiered on. We were all in it together and helped each other whenever we could. We had one thing in common and that was the will to survive which was all that mattered. Although tea, like almost everything else, was rationed, there were endless cups of tea to soothe shattered nerves.

Bombs continued to rain down, criss-crossing searchlights lit up the sky at night and the anti-aircraft fire was fearsome. Firemen and air raid wardens did what they could to protect the city. Large balloons appeared in the sky which were called barrage balloons. They were elongated, grey shapes like inflated elephants attached to thick wire ropes to trap unwary, low flying enemy aircraft. In 1942, all railings in front of houses and surrounding parks were removed for their metal to be used for ships and tanks. There were strict blackout precautions and windows were taped against damage from splintered glass and, on the ground floor of large buildings, windows and doorways were protected by walls of sandbags. Also, there was no street lighting or friendly lights from windows and we were forced to use torches. There were blackout curfews after dark, which caused many accidents, but the blackout was an air raid precaution and saved many lives. During the long, dark ,winter nights it was an absolute nightmare. We lived very near to Clapham Junction station, a major railway system, which was bombed continuously but despite the desolation it was like a cat and had 9 lives and managed to continue limping along.

Nothing was like the onslaught on London when they repeatedly dropped their tonnage of destruction and bombs fell incessantly resulting in relentless nights and days of terror and hell.

We Londoners bravely responded to the onslaught of London with defiant good humour. 'Jerry' (one of our nicknames for the Germans), 'will never get the last laugh over us.' was our taut reply, and they definitely did not. We were not labelled the 'Bulldog Breed' for nothing. We were in a permanent state of alert and were constantly living under a cloud of violent death but despite the ferocity of the relentless raids we survived even though utter exhaustion clung to us day and night.

There were many horrifying experiences but the noise of the VI flying bombs will haunt me forever. This was one of Hitler's secret weapons and was first launched in 1944. It was called a flying bomb, a doodlebug or a buzz bomb. It was essentially a pilotless plane packed with explosives whose rocket engine cut out over the target area so it glided to the ground and exploded. The gliding and cut-out mechanisms used were crude, but a large number still fell on London despite the fact that the RAF bombed some of the launching sites and also shot many down over the English Channel. Their engines made a distinct roaring sound which I shall never forget. One could hear them approaching from a distance and as the droning became louder and louder we were more terrified by the second. It was even more devastating when the noise stopped and there was an uncanny stillness whilst we held our breath. This I can remember so well. We had no option but to sit there helplessly in the shelter and pray whilst waiting for the noise to stop and a deathly silence prevailed. Were we destined to die that night? We were terrified if the engine cut out before it was overhead since that meant the flying bomb would glide and probably hit us. If it stopped directly overhead, we knew we were relatively safe, because it would continue for a couple of miles before crashing to the ground. Finally when it landed with an immense explosion, we all felt a great relief that it wasn't us this time, but a tremendous sadness for the poor victims that were involved.

Eventually the all-clear siren sounded which was a steady tone and the sweetest sound on earth. We were free again and dashed out of the shelter to see who the unfortunate victims were and if we could help them. There was utter chaos verywhere. Houses were completely demolished, others had walls that had collapsed with furniture leaning at bizarre angles from upstairs rooms. Glass was missing from all the windows, and even houses half a mile away from the blast had lost chimneys and tiles. Pavements were littered with tiles, glass and bricks. The slaughter created maximum terror with massive explosions resulting in shrapnel and debris falling all around us. It was pitiful what we repeatedly saw which we will never forget as there were so many sad and sickening sights. We lived near to the mainline railway station of Clapham Junction, a major German target, which was constantly attacked to disrupt the rail transportation system of the country. Ken and his friends spent a lot of time collecting shrapnel from exploded bombs which many boys did including Peter my husband. Ken also gathered wood from bomb-sites to make stilts and carts (to which he added wheels and an orange-box) and chopped some of it up to make little bundles which he sold for firewood.

My brother managed to avoid being hit by a doodle-bug when he couldn't get to a shelter in time after the air raid siren had sounded. He and his friend, who were in the street, saw it coming towards them and suddenly a man grabbed them from behind and flung them down on the pavement behind a wall. There was a tremendous explosion as it landed in the nearby cemetery with debris everywhere, he was terrified. Another time, he was in a swimming pool when the siren sounded and all the swimmers dashed upstairs to safety. There was a terrific explosion and the glass roof shattered and fell directly on to the pool. It was a miracle that they were not still in the pool. The bomb had fallen at the nearby Clapham Junction railway station and one of Ken's friends, who was helping in a local butcher's shop was killed. Ken immediately dashed home as we lived near the station and he was very worried about my mother, but despite the fact that she was in shock, fortunately she wasn't hurt.

My father was serving in the Royal Navy on the guns of HMS Warspite on convoys to Iceland and Russia. He experienced some bitter battles but when he came home on leave to see us in London, he always said that he would sooner be fighting for his country in the Navy than be poor helpless civilians like us just praying that we would be safe and being unable to do little to defend ourselves. All we had was faith and hope.

Unlike the doodle-bugs, the V2 rockets which came afterwards streaked stealthily across the sky without warning. There were no wailing air raid sirens to terrify us and although we were completely unprepared, we were spared the dreaded anticipation of another bombing raid. However, on reflection, it was better to be prepared as we could at least find a nearby air raid shelter for protection. Also when the all-clear siren was sounded we knew that we could probably safely carry on with our lives until the next air raid.

One V2 rocket experience which I can remember vividly was sitting in the local cinema with my friend Rita and like everyone else were completely absorbed in the film. Quite suddenly, a massive V2 rocket fell just behind the cinema and there was a huge blue flash from the screen which collapsed and the entire cinema was shrouded in choking, blinding smoke and debris. As it was a V2 rocket we had no warning and if it had been a few yards nearer, the cinema would have got a direct hit. The noise was deafening and was coupled with the screams from the audience in their shock and panic to escape. We all crowded to the emergency exits which were flung open and we eventually staggered out into the clean, fresh air. We were breathless from the choking smoke and also from blinding fear. Did I hear a voice in the distance calling "Joan", or was I dreaming? Yes, it was my mother's desperate voice screaming "Joan, Joan, where's my Joan." She knew that I had gone to the local cinema, the Granada, and heard the massive explosion. She dashed out of her house immediately and, to her horror, saw the cinema shrouded in smoke. As we lived nearby she didn't have far to run and finally found me amongst the devastation and confusion. The sense of relief was utterly indescribable.

However, we did get used to continual reprisals including the V2 rockets, as a familiar scene which we saw, when we walked to school each morning, was distraught residents in utter turmoil clawing at the wreckage of their homes which were destroyed the previous night and clutching their pathetic belongings but at least they were still alive.

Our neighbour, Mrs Greenaway, a quiet lady who had a husband who was on a night-shift at the Tate and Lyle sugar factory at Wandsworth, had a very sad experience. One night when he was at the factory, it was hit by a V2 rocket and everyone was killed. As this was a V2 rocket there was no air raid warning and his wife knew absolutely nothing about this until the next morning when she heard some women talking about it in the queue at the local butchers. They said that Tate and Lyle had had a direct hit in the night and she immediately dashed over there on the bus, a distance of about 2 miles, only to find that it had been completely demolished. She staggered about desperately on the rubble until a policeman came over to her and asked her what she was doing. She explained that she was looking for her husband and was told that tragically there were no survivors. She was so helpless and, in utter shock, blindly found her way home. She must have been completely overwrought which resulted in her immediately gassing herself without even stopping to think about it. Her 12 year old daughter Joan discovered her body on returning home from school that day. Sadly when she left for school in the morning, she thought that both her parents were alive. Poor distraught Joan had no alternative but to go and live with her devastated grandparents. This was one of the many tragic statistics of the war. Another one was when I was at school and my art teacher, Mr Carpenter, went home for lunch one day which he did regularly, only to find that his house had been bombed and his wife and young son had been killed. Such was the misery of war.

Huge crowds sought safety and invaded the London Underground every night having claimed an early pitch in the afternoon. They slept with their clothes on, clutching family documents including their identity cards and personal treasures. The Underground at night was a massive picnic with rows of men, women and children all huddled together eating and drinking tea and soft drinks. The air was always stale and there was often a stench of smoke and brick dust in the air which was frequented by mosquitoes. Apart from this however, my mother strongly objected to sleeping in the Underground for fear of being trapped. In the Underground station at Balham which was a few miles from Clapham Junction, over 600 people were killed and maimed from a bomb and some were suffocated in their panic and struggle to get out.

Although London was continually bombed day and night and all we ever heard was people saying: "Poor old London copped it again last night. ", other large cities suffered too but not so relentlessly. Nevertheless I was a Londoner and was proud of the spirit that pervaded the city day and night. In those dark days people determinedly got on with life despite the continuous doom and gloom. Life was grim and heartbreaking and the hardship was extremely severe. Despite Hitler's obsession to ultimately invade Great Britain which was only 22 miles across the Channel, it didn't materialise. How different our lives would have been today if the Germans had succeeded in invading our island.

There were horrendous battles on land, sea and in the air and our losses were disastrous, but despite the terrible degradation, we triumphed against all the odds. I can remember us all anxiously crowding around our radios each night when we could, to listen to the news bulletins at 9.pm on the BBC Home Service which constantly kept us in touch although, most of the time, the news was unnervingly daunting. Sir Winston Churchill was our great inspiration and we all anxiously awaited his stirring broadcasts to the nation.

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

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

No stranger to war

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

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

Paris and Warsaw babyhood

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

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

Journey to safety

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

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

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

Now in England and back to school

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

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

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

In 1938, as Chamberlain flew to Munich I was evacuated to Wiltshire together with two of cousins. We were to stay with my auntie's sister. However, the crisis passed and I was back in Earlsfield a week later. But in 1939 as it became obvious that war was inevitable I was sent again to Wiltshire. This time I stayed for 3 months but I came home for Christmas and stayed home.

I can't remember whether it was just before my first or second evacuation that I witnessed the Irish navvies in Earlsfield digging the foundations for the shelters. However, a lot of the shelters including ours at home flooded and had to have a concrete wall built around the inside which made them smaller.

My cousin Ruth who had been evacuated with me returned to London a little later and she began work at Arding and Hobbs Department Store at Clapham Junction. She witnessed one of the early bombings at the back of the Store. It was terrible and very frightening.

The bomb which affected me most was probably a small one. It damaged a wall at the back of the former Workhouse in Swaffield Street in Earlsfield. The vibration knocked over a broom by the back door and the noise seemed to go on through my head.

Where there is now a block of flats, between Dingwall and Inman Roads in Earlsfield, a time-bomb fell and went off at about 2.00 a.m. This was in the middle of the Blitz on London. At one stage
a mysterious hole appeared in Inman Road near the junction with Wilna Road. The whole area was roped off as far as Dingwall Road. I think this turned out to be a shell.

One of the worst incidents was a direct hit on an Anderson Shelter at the corner of Bassingham Road, almost opposite the School. My father and our immediate neighbour, (one of the old-time railway guards), and his son who was home on leave from the Air Force went to help the local Air Raid Wardens to dig people out but alas - all dead. I don't think the Wardens got enough recognition for their work during the War.

After tbis incident my father insisted that my mother and myself be evacuated and my father telegraphed to my aunt's cousin and all the country-folk were on standby to receive us. As we left there was a time-bomb in Brocklebank Road, where the block of flats and modern houses now stand. While we were away yet another bomb wiped out houses in Earlsfield Road between Brocklebank and Dingwall Roads, (where the flats now back onto Dingwall Road.)

When I was back in London, one of the most terrifying nights was when a German plane was hit by our guns and we could hear it getting lower and lower. It came down in Merton Park. The younger generation now would no doubt think first of the pilot and crew but our first thoughts were that it was one less 'B' to bomb us. My father knew someone in that direction and we acquired a piece of metal from the plane. We kept this with a lump of jagged metal(shrapnel(?)), which fell with a thump in our garden one night. Both were kept for many years in our hall-stand until they smelled and went mouldy. Sometimes, I wish I had kept them to show my great-nephews or to give to the Wandsworth Museum in Garratt Lane.

At one stage during the War I was attending night-school on West Hill. As we left one evening the sirens sounded. My cousin Ed was going to Cadets nearby. With a barrage of guns sounding, Jerry appeared to be coming for us from the Richmond direction. I flew down Wandsworth High Street, followed by my cousin until I saw the Warden and asked where was the nearest shelter. We found it and tumbled in. Ed said: " I never knew you could run like that!" - but that is what fear does.

I belonged to the girl's club at my church, (Congregational), at the foot of Earlsfield Road. As we left one evening a Raid was hotting up and at first we ran to one of the girl's houses in Algarve Road. I think it was the grandmother who opened the door, but understandably, she did not want the responsibility of all of us, so several of us made for the main road and for a time took shelter in Earlsfield Station but with Jerry overhead this was not a good place to be, so we took our chances with the shrapnel and raced to one of the basement shelters below the shops in Garratt Lane.

My father worked in the Sorting Office,then at the High Street end of St. Anne's Hill. He cycled to work on his old bike. One evening he reached as far as Swaffield School and the frame of his bike split and he came off, shedding all his pens and pencils needed for his work. This in the middle of a Raid and in the Blackout!

Between short raids at night everyone used to go up and down the road looking for incendiaries. There was a contraption the Germans used, known as a 'Molotov Bread Basket'. This shed hundreds of incendiaries as opposed to High Explosive Incendiaries, (H.E.S.) The Church was damaged by one of these.

The German planes sometimes dropped Verey Lights earlier than the main night raids. They lit up the area. The Garratt Lane area towards King George's Park was a big factory area and therefore a target. There was a quieter period after I started work, between 1942-43. However, in one of Jeffrey Archer's books about a London Store one would think the war had ended as far as air raids were concerned but this was not the case.

Alas, there were even more terrifying times to come. In 1944 came the Flying Bombs, V.I.S. or Doodle Bugs, ( a nickname which stuck). I believe that Wandsworth together with Croydon, Lewisham, New Cross and Catford had the highest rate of V.I.S. No one could forget the terrible rattling sound and the engine cutting out. One counted to ten and if you were still alive you knew someone else had 'copped it'.

As the raids went on the piles of debris in the streets mounted higher and higher. One night, together with a friend I arrived at our stop - Brocklebank Road at Garratt Lane on the 77 bus. As we dismounted we could feel the silence that came after a bad attack. We feared the worst and asked someone: "Where did it fall?" The reply: Wilna Road. Our road. Fearing the very worst, my friend and I joined hands and turned the corner. Thank God! Our houses and folk were safe but at the bottom of the road all we could see was a mass of white helmets as the Wardens dug for any survivors. The windows in our house were all blown out but as I recall later replaced by the Royal Navy (?). My mother who had been at home at the time the bomb fell and who hated the Anderson Shelter had taken cover under the stairs. Her friend, Mrs Dell had just left the house when the raid started and only just made into her own home in Vanderbilt Road. I shall never forget that homecoming.

There was a big incident in Clapham Junction when a 77 bus was blown to bits. My father, then Assistant Head Postman at the West Central Post Office just missed catching this bus but caught the one behind and narrowly missed being killed himself. Apart from the bus and its passengers the bomb also destroyed Battersea Sorting Office at Lavender Hill and I believe, a gas main. My father said he would never forget it as long as he lived. He was asked to return to work - at the Lavender Hill Sorting Office and was back on duty even bfore they had finished clearing away the bodies - some of them no doubt his former colleagues.

Later during a lull and when I was working in the basement of the Music Shop in Holborn, I was about to go laden with the post to the Post Office further down High Holborn. I got as far as the foot of the stairs of the shop (all shop basements were shelters as well), when a V2 rocket landed further down the street. It blew in the windows of the shop. I was helping my manageress clear the window when my father came rushing along to see if I was safe, having heard where the incident was. I think it actually landed on an already bombed site. I remember going to the Post Office later that day,(life had to go on), and passing someone bleeding and in state of shock.

It was a good job that the Germans did not have those weapons at the time of Dunkirk, which the younger of my two brothers survived - just. He was missing for a few days. My elder brother, who had not passsed the forces medical tests acted as fire warden at the White Horse Whiskey premises underneath Waterloo Station, and Dad at Store Street Post Office, off Tottenham Court Road.

I feel my experiences of the War at Home are few compared to those of my sister-in-law and her sister. They used to travel from Peckham to Perivale,( a bomb alley), every day to the Hoover factory for war work all through the Blitz and the blackout. People talk about stress nowadays but I think those who worked in London or any big city during the War certainly had their fair share of it!

Before the bombing began the Council had been trying to move people if there was severe overcrowding in the house. A friend, one of a family of 10 was moved to then new Henry Prince Estate off Garratt Lane. He was killed in India on the last day of the War. He was training to be a fighter pilot.

Eileen Bicknell
Silver Circle Reading Group
Wandsworth Libraries

First thing I remember of September 1939 is being told we must deny any Jewish family connections.

We lived in a fairly large house opposite Clapham Junction, South London. We quickly moved house to one further from the busiest railway junction in London, which was a prime target.

Our first Air Raid Shelter was the London Transport underground tube station. Bunks had been placed along the platforms and each evening, we would arrive with a few possessions and take our place in a two-tier bunk; the only privacy was a blanket suspended from the top bunk. At this time, my father was a fire-fighter so mum was alone in the Tube with two small children. If one wanted the loo, we all had to go, complete with any possessions - teddy bears and dolls! I was very nervous, not of bombs but of some of the weird people who we were living so close to.

If we were out during the day and a siren sounded, some of the shops would open the trap-door in front of their shop (which was used for deliveries) and we'd scuttle down the ladder. My favourite shop was David Greigs, us kids were spoilt there. I always dawdled outside hoping the siren would sound, never giving a thought to bombs! Then the Government installed the Anderson Shelter for each family. It was sunk into the ground for about 3ft and measured roughly 9ft by 9ft. It had two, two-tier bunks and accommodated our 6 family members with a squeeze. This was luxury after the Tube, but, being below ground level with no ventilation, it was damp and began to smell. Everything went mouldy and I still recognise the smell. I hated the toilet arrangements - a bucket outside for use during a lull, brought inside for use during a raid. During this time, my brother, aged 5, developed asthma and my father T.B., although he was not aware he had it. Dad got his calling-up papers and was turned down on medical grounds, but the examining doctor refused to tell him why or warn him of the Tuberculosis they'd found. I heard my parents worriedly discussing it and I was glad he wouldn't be going to war.

The evacuation of London began. I was ready to go with my gas mask, case and with a label tied to my coat. My brother was too ill to go, so, at the last minute, my mother decided to go also and take him away from London. So we set off for some vague address in Bakewell, Derbyshire. Families in safe areas were ordered to take in evacuees and, in this house, we were resented and made to feel very unwanted. Food, already scarce, was even more so for us. Our mean hostess fed her own family well with the rations intended for us. Within a month we had left and it was years before I ate a Bakewell tart or admitted Derbyshire was beautiful!

Next, we reached an old farm cottage in Bampton, Oxfordshire. Our landlady was a Mrs Tanner, a warm-hearted person who made us welcome with a full meal and a blazing fire - what a difference!

Mrs Tanner was the wife of the local Thatcher. They kept livestock for their own food, as country people did then. Despite being Cockneys, we had come from an immaculate home with electricity, hot water, a bathroom and an indoor toilet. We now found ourselves in this warm, well-fed friendly cottage with friendly bed bugs, kids with head lice, a tin bath hanging on the garden wall and a bucket'n'plank loo in the yard. The loo had a lovely picture of "Bubbles", the Pears advert, hanging on its wall - very tasteful.

On Thursdays, all doors and windows were tightly closed whilst we waited the coming of the Dung men; two gentlemen wearing leather aprons emptied everyone's buckets into their cart. What a job!

My brother was very much worse, skinny and weak with breathing difficulties. He spent time in hospital and mum stayed with him. Mrs Tanner treated me like yet another grandchild and I soon settled happily into my new way of life. Mum asked her if she would take me to the town, a bus ride away, to get new shoes and some clothes. Off we went on what was literally a shop-lifting spree. I was both frightened and excited and sworn to secrecy. Mrs T. kept the money and the coupons and mum was thrilled to have got so many bargains. I never told her! But, when I wore my new shoes or my finery, I always dreaded someone asking me questions. I laid awake at night rehearsing my answers. I was never tempted to try it myself. When I see Travellers, kids, I often think "that was me once". After a year of my idea of heaven, mum decided to return to London to see if the hospitals there could help little Eddie. We got back just in time for The Battle of Britain; I'm glad they waited for us. I was so homesick for Bampton that I even contemplated running away to try to go back. Although I settled down, I still think of Bampton as my home and, after 63 years, I still go back for holidays. Just one year made such an impression on me. It was so carefree and I enjoyed some of the jobs with the animals.

During the time we were away, my dad had carried on with his job and Fire-fighting in London. Our home had gone, so we stayed with an Aunt until we got somewhere to live. Empty houses were requisitioned by the Authorities, who then allocated them to those who needed them. My parents applied for a house, explaining that Eddie needed to be near a hospital, but they were told that, as the father was not in the forces, they did not qualify for accommodation. They were heartbroken as a doctor had informed them that, without a decent home, Eddie would not live long. My father insisted on volunteering for any of the forces, but was once again declared unfit. Eventually, after mum worried them every day, we were given two rooms in a small terraced house, sharing a toilet with another family. There was no bathroom and we were made to feel almost like traitors with frequent remarks directed at my dad. Even at school the teachers singled us out with "anyone who's father is not in the forces will not be getting this" - this could be milk or some other treat we regarded as a luxury. One teacher was so obsessed that today she would be considered mentally unbalanced. A project she gave us 10year olds was to devise tortures for Hitler or any German unlucky enough to survive a plane crash. I cheated and copied one from a book.

Our shelter was now a reinforced cellar. It was dry and spacious and, during heavy bombing, some of our neighbours joined us and we had what I considered to be jolly times together. Food was in very short supply; although we had ration books, there was not always enough food in the shops. I was sent to queue up, then mum would take over while I queued again at the next shop with food, where we repeated the pattern. I once reached the counter before mum got there; we were waiting for eggs. I got 4 eggs in a paper bag and, as I left the shop, I dropped them. Carefully carrying them back to the counter I told the assistant she had given me cracked eggs. I was shouted at and called a lying, nasty little girl but managed to obtain 4 replacement eggs. I just could not have told my mum I'd broken them.

A neighbour of ours was a fishmonger, poulterer and game merchant. He sometimes had rabbits for sale; they were always skinned and usually in pieces. After bombing raids, there were often cats straying where their home was destroyed, or dogs wandering about the streets. We think our fishmonger solved this problem. I believe most women realised the meat wasn't quite what they wanted but had to have some meat to put in the stew. Luckily we had a vicious wild cat I had taken in and being so spiteful, she lived a long and happy life, occasionally bringing home a piece of fish. How she managed this I don't know. Could it have been bait for a lesser cat?

School was rather a shambles. We had our classes in a shelter, that is 2 or 3 classes at a time; as there was insufficient room for all the children we had mornings or afternoons only. The other class we shared our shelter with always had such interesting lessons! I feel awful about admitting this but the education system was so easy to play truant from. If you didn't turn up they assumed you'd been bombed or sent away to safety. A couple of friends and I used to ignore the danger of air raids and go to the centre of London where we could be sure of meeting American servicemen. We begged for gum or chocolate from them, then had to eat or hide it before going home. At no time did we ever think of how our families would have no idea where we were if we never came back. It's rather frightening really. Our excursions came to an end when, on a very wet day, mum came to meet me from school with an umbrella. After waiting until all the kids had left, she went in to see our teacher who said I had not attended for some time and thought I had gone back to Bampton. Boy, did I get a beating! She was as vicious as my cat but not as lovable.

One night we were in our shelter when a neighbour called us to come out to see the incredible amount of German planes that our boys were shooting down. We stood outside in the street and cheered, linking arms and dancing. The next day we heard on the radio that they had not been shot down but were a new weapon - the Doodle Bug. From then on I understood fear. I don't know what triggered it but I joined the ranks of the old dears who swore they recognised one of ours or one of theirs. I henceforth scrambled to get my pets into the shelter as soon as we heard the siren. My dog soon learnt this and was first down; her hearing being keener than ours, she could hear the siren in the next town before ours. Soon we had Rockets. There was no warning with them. The first one we saw was on a summer's evening when my friends and self were practising the Tango on the street corner. We were singing "Pedro the Fisherman" as a whine came from above our heads, followed by a cloud of dust and then the impact and sound of the explosion. Four screaming dancers rushed for shelter. We knew many of the people who had been killed or injured and it seemed too close to us. It never had been safe but we hadn't noticed it before, now I did, worrying, "where did that one land?" "Is it near dad's shop or near our relations?" I guess I'd grown up but it was so quick. I was twelve, learning to tango and worrying about our family. I decided I would join the Land Army as soon as they would let me; I'd heard one no longer needed parents' permission. This was not anything to do with the war effort. I simply wanted my life back in beloved Bampton. My feelings were mixed when the war ended, no more terrifying Rockets but trapped in London with no chance of getting away until I married!

London in War Time

Prologue
Researching for the BBC archive has brought back many half forgotten memories. I guess I was to young to realise what war meant to the civilian population and the losses in terms of property but more especially friends and family. It is a pity Mum and Dad are no longer alive as I am sure they could have added greatly to this contribution.

Peace in our time?
Before World War Two Dad was a Window Cleaner running his own business in the Tooting and Balham areas of London. He even employed an assistant. Sometimes Dad would go out in the morning and clean enough windows to pay for a cooked breakfast in the local café. Then when he arrived home later short of money, he would tell Mum that people did not want their windows cleaned that day.

Dad. The photo that should have appeared here is dated 29th February 1936

What a handsome fellow no wonder Mum fell for him.

Dad enlisted on the 20th June 1940 at Deryes (That’s what the name looks like in the book.) into the Queens own Royal West Kents, at the age of 27. Luckily I still have his ‘Army Pay Book’, which is full of information. It shows his medical classification as A1 on the 4th June 1941. I also have his war medals one of which shows that he was in the First Army.

Dad enlisted and in uniform. Photo dated 14 December 1941

By the time he was returned to England from Algiers he was classified as C. the book shows him as having been returned to UK by troopship on 1st August 1943. Mum was just glad to have him home again when so many did not return, however he was a changed man. He was suffering from Anxiety Neurosis, Shell Shock to you and me. He suffered sudden ‘Black outs’ for the rest of his life. Not that he got a war pension as a result.
A few years before he died at the age of 85 we managed to get him a small award for hearing loss due to his War Time army service. When he was discharged from the army hospital in 1943 he was told, ‘You are ready to go home, you don’t want to claim a pension do you?’ Well what would you do? He wanted to get home to us and was afraid that a claim would hold him up.
Why did those stupid politicians on both sides declare a war that nobody else wanted?
I do not remember our trip to Scotland to see Dad before he was taken away to the war in Algiers but it must have been very traumatic for Mum.

Photo of Dad and his army unit, second from the right seated. Unlike the others this photo is not dated

I wonder how many of the troop survived the conflict?

I was born at The Woodlands, Colliers Wood on the outskirts of London on 16th February 1940.
It must have been really difficult for a young couple who had been married only a few years to discover, first that I was on the way, then that war was being declared. We were living at 3 Banstead Way at the time. I can only try to imagine the stress my mother experienced bringing up a child in wartime London and Dad being away. Apparently we moved a few times until we arrived at the house that I remember.

Photro of Mum and I. November 1942. Me at age two.

23 Wickersley Road, Battersea.
Mum used to tell us a story that went something like this. She had taken me in my pram for a walk in Battersea Park. She sat on a park bench for a rest before returning home. Mum was startled by a voice. She had not seen the old lady arrive at the side of the pram.
"He is going to be very clever with his hands."
"Pardon," said Mum.
"He will grow up to be an engineer." The old lady leaned further over the pram then stepped back when she realised that Mum was getting nervous about the sudden intrusion.
"I’m a spiritualist you know, and I can see an aura around most people."
"My name's Mabel, and this is Roy." Mum had introduced us with renewed confidence. Well you made friends with people much easier during wartime.
It was difficult to believe there was a war on in the early days.
The old lady asked if she could hold my hand for a moment.
"Well, all right," Mum had agreed doubtfully. She looked with some trepidation at the grimy hand that reached into my pram.
"Yes, he's going to be creative in many ways and you will be very proud of him." The old lady’s popularity rating must have risen somewhat at that statement.
Battersea Park had become chilly all of a sudden. Mum glanced away from the pram for a moment as the wind blew a cloud of dust in her eyes. It blinded her for a few seconds, but when her eyes cleared, the old lady was nowhere to be seen.
What the old lady had said came true when I started work in 1955 as a motor mechanic. Was it a prophecy come true? Or was it the fact that as toys were few and far between Dad would go into the bombed out house next door and remove a door lock and give it and a screwdriver to me to play with. I guess it depends on what you like to believe.
When we got home from our walk Mum found that although she knew he was back in England, Dad had come home unexpectedly. He did not have a front door key so our neighbour had let him in through their back garden. He climbed over the fence and in through the unlocked back door. While he had been away Mum had got a little dog. Binky had let him in the house all right then got him trapped in a corner of the kitchen. Dad in his nervous state could do nothing but wait until Mum and I returned home. Mum never let him forget that incident. Later when Mum had to go into hospital Dad had to have Binky put down. I don’t think she ever believed it was for a genuine reason.

Photo of Binky

Battersea Power Station was of course a prime target for enemy bombers so we had our fair share of ‘Whoosh bang ooh nasties’.
Dad told me this story of when he and I had been in Battersea Park. I had ridden the nice little three-wheeled bicycle he had bought me until my young legs had become too tired. We were making our way slowly down the street towards home when a Flying Bomb exploded with frightening, deafening, force in the next street and showered the area with debris. It created a choking, all enveloping dust storm that temporarily blocked out what had been a bright sunny day.
When the dust cloud blocked my view of home, I left the new tricycle and ran in the direction of home. I burst in through the dilapidated front door and ran into the kitchen.
'Oh mum,' I said apparently with tears running down my cheeks, 'I thought you were dead.' The tears had streaked the dust that had collected on my face.
'Don't worry, I'm all right,' Mum replied.
'I couldn't keep up with him.' Dad had appeared at the kitchen door out of breath, sweating, and carrying the discarded tricycle.
'He's all right, but you had better sit down, you know what the Doctor said. I'll make us a cup of tea.' Mum’s cure for all ills was a cup of tea, and it generally worked.
In later years we worked out that my earliest memory was probably at about the age of three. 1943 it was and the War was well under way before I was born, so nobody can blame me. We were at Granny’s flat in Begansa Street in London. Granddad, who had served in the First World War in India, now looked after the horses for a local dairy. He was also an air raid warden. You know the ones that used to shout ‘Put that light out,’ at any house that showed the least chink of light after dark. The flat had its windows blacked out, as was the law. You cannot imagine the total darkness that occurred when the money ran out in the electricity meter. I can clearly remember the vision of Dad’s red glowing cigarette end coming towards Mum and I in the total blackness. I think I must have screamed in fear.
“Stand still Vic,” Mum shouted to Dad above my fearful cry.
Then someone put a shilling in the meter and the room was once again illuminated. In later years when, every winter, I ‘enjoyed’ a week off school for my turn in bed with the dreaded influenza, I would become a bit light headed and would see that vision all over again.
Another memory I have of our time at the flat is of the little hut just inside the large double gates. It had a hand operated petrol pump alongside. I had wandered inside the hut just as one of the men took his top denture out. Mum said I spent the rest of the day trying to take my teeth out. She tried to explain to me why mine would not come out. Well hey Mum, they will now.
Mum told me that one morning I had gone missing. She knew that I had to be in the yard somewhere as the gates to the road were closed. She eventually found me in one of the stables sitting playing in the straw underneath the biggest carthorse you can imagine. Much to Mum’s relief I came out of the stable when quietly called. The horse I had been sitting under had a reputation for being bad tempered. Ah well! I have never had trouble with animals, only the human kind, usually of the female persuasion. Hmm!
If you could get granddad to tell his 1st world war stories we kids always found them fascinating. I still treasure his medals that were passed on to me by Mum and Dad. He was a sergeant.
Mind you although she was quite severe in her general demeanour, Gran had her moments. One day an important gentleman called at their house. Well he wore a smart suit, white shirt and tie, so he must have been important. It was just after dinner and the plates were lined up along one wall of the dining room. The family’s pet dog was working its way along the line leaving the plates licked clean. The gentleman watched the dog’s progress, and then looked up at Gran.
“Ah! That’s alright,” said Gran in her usual straight faced style of humour, “That’s how we do the washing up in this house.”
I do not consciously remember much about the bombing proper, only things associated with it. Such as dad hanging a large picture on the wall of our house at Wickersley Road to cover up the crack that had appeared due to the flying bomb that dropped in the next street.
I should have had a brother but sadly he was still born. I still cannot remember whether he would have been older or younger than me. My sister remembers Mum telling her that the shout went up one night, ’Put that light out.’ Mum climbed up on a stool to adjust the blackout curtains and fell, my brother was subsequently stillborn.
The kids, bless them, regularly got into the bombed out house next-door and lit fires. Nothing changes does it? The smoke would come into our house through a hole in the stairs. One night I was grabbed from my bed and with dressing gowns wrapped loosely around us we went out into the street while the fire brigade investigated.
Because of Dad’s shell shock, we were allowed one of the Morrison shelters. This was the one you assembled indoors and used as a table. It had two sides that were plain steel and two that were wire mesh. You assembled it with one of the plain sides facing the window to keep out shattering glass.
One night when the siren started howling it’s warning, according to Mum, our cat carried her kittens one by one down three flights of stairs, and placed them carefully in the shelter with us. But she would not stay in the shelter herself. She must have instinctively known where her kittens would be safe.

We won, I think.
Eventually peace came to a troubled world and the celebrations started. I remember being seated on the brick built air raid shelter in the middle of Wickersley Road. Surrounded by all the other survivors from our street, we had our photograph taken.

Group photo. That’s me forth from the right seated on the roof of the shelter.
How about that hat? I wonder what’s happened to the others in the photo?

That last Christmas before the end of the war we had a visit from Father Christmas. A knock came at the door and for some reason I was told to find out who was there. When I opened it I saw this tall figure dressed in a red suit, sporting a long white beard and carrying a huge sack slung over his shoulder. I think I must have simply shut the door again and returned to the room where Mum was waiting.
“It’s Father Christmas,” I whispered.
“Well let him in then,” I was told.
I do not remember how many children were there at the time but I know I was very lucky. I was given two train sets. I distinctly remember one of the engines had a figure of Father Christmas. As it ran around the track he banged a little drum. “Offer Father Christmas a sweet”. Mum told me.
In later years when the story was related and I had found out that it had been my Dad all along, I also found out that the sweet was to disguise his voice.
My aunt Min used to arrive every so often with a pile of food.
“I don’t feel like eating on my own,” she would lie. She knew very well that money and consequently food was in short supply. Mum would be persuaded to play the piano for a good old sing-along and for a few short hours the war would seem very far away.

Epilogue

When this picture was taken I think we were on holiday, probably at Southend, our first after the war ended.

I was five years old when the war ended. I think it was out of some sort of perverse bravado that we stayed in London until the end of the war, then moved out into the country to Burrow Street, Stathe in Somerset.
Due to the effects of the war on Dad’s health, and the fact that money was always short when he was cleaning windows, Dad changed his trade. He became a gardener for a series of big houses in different villages until we arrived at the village that was to become our home for the next twenty or so years. We soon realised that the local Fire Brigade was using one of the old Air Raid Sirens to call the men in to the fire station. The look on mum’s face when that awful racket started proved that her wartime experiences had not been forgotten.

I pray to God that it never happens again
RJS. 2609 Words

Wendy’s white blank face reproached for my disloyalty — but as she hated me bitterly now, there seemed to be no sense anywhere. At the bottom of Saltby locks, we had to wait, Wendy and I on the butty. Unable to bear her blank scrutiny any longer, I made to leap on the roof to go and see what was happening. But she seized my arm with an unknown strength and threw me into the hatches. She had her steel windlass, which she fingered while she looked at me. “You’re afraid aren’t you!”. I was so glad the boats moved on then! Kit and Wendy went to the doctor. We felt unable to take the responsibility for what she might do to herself or to us and Kit was determined she should go home. She phoned the G.U.C.C. Depot for advice. The depot were stupid in the extreme and said impossible bring her back. Kit was furious and decided to wire her parents and make the arrangements herself, which she did. That night Wendy talked in her sleep and when she woke asked Kit “If it wasn’t nice to be under the sea?” Kit said that was enough. They went up to London the same day. It was breezy — the clouds flying. Wendy went quietly with Kit and without a backward look. I don’t think she had any idea what was happening. Vera had gone to see her father the evening before and I was alone. I spent the whole day washing. The wind was so strong it shipped my washing up bowl into the Cut behind my back. I don’t think I have ever been so tired in my life — I spent the day feeling as if I was sleep walking. Kit and Vera came back in the evening and we tried to sort things out, the why’s and wherefors. There didn’t seem to be any. Although references by Wendy to an engagement to Billie made us suspicious. It was all to quote Miranda’s pet phrase “so fantastic”. We went on to talk about lesbianism on the Cut and I discovered that it was considered an ideal occupation for lesbians. The only trouble being that the odd numbers of the crews made for jealousy. I began to understand veiled hints about a number of the people I had met and to wonder about everyone with an uncertain shiver. However, people can’t help their make-up. I decided so long as they left me alone it didn’t matter. The rest of the trip began in a very light-hearted manner. We sailed gaily along the Bottom Road in two days without sticking once, our backs ached with the butty pulling, but anything practical and real was such a relief that we worked like demons. Kit appeared once looking so much like a drawing by “Geo M” from Punch, that I collapsed with merriment. It was very cold and she was glad in a balaclava, a three quarter length leather jerkin, a pair of slacks tucked into her boots complete with belt and windlass. Not to mention the 40ft Shaft she was carrying over one shoulder! Perfect! We loaded at Bedworth. A very dirty little back alley of a loading place. Vera went out one night. I did my washing. I pegged it out and for some reason as I walked back along the gunwale turned round to see if it was all secure. I had a strange sinking sensation and suddenly a complete shock as the oily water closed over my head. I came up spluttering and was fished out by Kit with a bit of cotton line round my bottom. We laughed weakly but the pair behind us roared. I thanked my lucky stars I had hung out my washing first and wiped the oily water off giggling helplessly. Kit gave me some hot soup and I felt better than I had for ages. Next day we were loaded. Coal dust all over everything. I’d never been so black! Even our cabins, do what we might about shutting them in, there was a thin film of dust over everything. Getting out of Bedworth loading place is an art. The channel will just take boats breasted and a single pair. At the end is an exceptionally narrow entrance and you go into a blind turn to get into the main channel. There is mud on the opposite bank and in the bend. It is necessary to strap the butty up short as you turn and hold her stern to the bank so that she turns like a pivot with the motor. We were helped out by a cheery but dirty lad named Alf, with a donkey. Kit didn’t agree with his methods but he took no notice, also there was a sudden call on the horn — a pair of empties came whistling through the bridge putting us squarely on the mud, despite the donkey! We had the hell of a time getting off again. The run home was uneventful. Vera and I took the motor between us. Kit lived on the butty. We trailed back over Tring Summit to the Cow Roast on a particularly wet morning — with Kit steering the butty — she had an enormous umbrella up and was eating a boiled egg at the same time and in oil skins! We were all tired and irritable through reaction, though by the time we reached Hayes, Kit had said bitterly several times during our return journey, that she thought Wendy had been so ill she had never noticed our faults. But as we met boats at one lock, I heard her say proudly that “We’d come down pretty well two handed and were doing well!”. The sky went gold! I packed my bags and cleared out of Battersea next day. Bid a sad farewell to Kit. We wrote up the last of my log that night. Buzz bombs came over while we did it. The gilt was off the gingerbread, as far as our next trip was concerned. With both Wendy and Kay gone I didn’t even know who I would be working with. I was so tired now that we’d stopped working that I simply didn’t care and only wanted to go home and sleep and sleep. When I got home mother said “You don’t mind do you, S (her brother) is here, he isn’t very well — it’s a kind of nervous breakdown”. He wasn’t bad just rather helpless but I felt my inside, which was aching to unbend, go rigid, here again was a necessity to be someone else and play a part. No rest in bed. Mother frantically busy and plenty to do. My twenty first birthday. I felt all day as if I was in a coma. Nothing seemed to touch me physically or mentally, in the evening when everyone was in bed, I wept with pure self pity. No presents, no key, no rest, oh hell! Next day the gang took me to a concert — we listed to Eine Kleine Nacht music. Tiny and I sat together and suddenly thrilled together at the music. I felt a warm throb of happiness and could have hugged him for no reason at all! We went to tea at Joy’s to meet Ian. Home on leave from the Fleet Air Arm. For some reason, he was not in the Gang’s good books. While we were arguing hotly on their right to criticise he appeared and everyone behaved like snarling dogs walking round on their toes. I felt weak and wanted a laugh, but felt Ian needed moral support and that was hardly the best way of giving it. Suddenly I thought this is daft, it’s Bob I want to see more than anyone else. I didn’t see him till Wednesday, when I worked at College and I saw him in the middle of the morning. I was a windy sunny day and we just suddenly met. I waved joyously and he ran down the steps to meet me, both thrilled for once or anyway pleased! I could have flown the clouds. We talked of all sorts of things — he asked me if we ever went to London. I had to say not often! We parted. I feeling radiant. We met in the evening and had a misunderstanding over tickets for the dance on Saturday. Bob left me his eyes thunderous. I felt my inside collapse and suddenly everything, boats, Bob, Wendy came like a black blanket over me. Ivy, angelic, let me howl on her shoulder and we sat in the still dark by the static water pool and I cried more completely than ever before. The stars looked down silent and kind. “If it’s meant to be, it will be“ said Ivy and I went home aching and empty.

I went to the dance and had a wonderful time but I couldn't keep my eyes off Bob. We said good-bye at the end, in a hurry as usual. I thought we can't just say good-bye like this. We can’t. I went home with Tony. Anthony tall stalwart, impersonal being, whom I liked very much and they kept me from thinking. When I got home in the small hours, I wrote Bob a note wishing him goodbye and well, telling him how I felt. Next morning, I was due back from leave; but my mother was ill and I had to stay for two days. I went back watching the sidings of Bournemouth station slide away with a heavy heart and no care for anything. Into Paddington that other world. That had somehow become unbelievable during my last leave. Back at Bulls Bridge, and the boats, there was Kit. "It's Kay and Miranda" she said "Your boats are at the end of the lay-by." I walked down, there smelling strongly of paint and dazzling in their newness, lay "Astra and Corolla”. Miranda looked out of the butty and said "You're living with me this trip, let me give you a hand with those things”. My heart sank. I had a crazy hope that Kay might have lived on the butty. Instead her broad grin appeared round.

Second trip with our own boats

We went up Cowley and up to the Summit fairly well; the weather was cold blowy and wet, but this time we had a cargo of steel and at least we had no lists to worry about. Going up Stoke Hammond Kay had a nasty experience. She was on the motor and so went right into the lock with her boat and as soon as she had put her in forward gear; jumped onto the butty roof, climbed onto the chimney and leapt up the wall. It's easy enough on the fairly shallow locks around Mathas; but these are deeper so in the third lock. Miranda and I dealing with the side ponds. Heard a sudden cry. Looking round saw only Kay's fingers clinging to the edge of the lock. We both moved like greased lighting and heaved her over; but I shall never forget the sight of Kay hanging down the black slippery wall; the butty having swung away from the wall and the swirling water hissing through the narrow gap beneath! Rrr! Kay never jumped those locks again. We achieved Rugby without incident; but there the water was very bad; and we had a grim time getting up the pounds. They were so low that the boats practically scraped their way along. Getting into the locks was a nightmare. We towed our butty in every time and tried breasting up the boats but that was of no avail and under the bridges it was difficult to do anything about it anyway. By the third and fourth lock the usual torrential downpour, which seemed inevitable whenever we were in difficulties had started. Anyone who has tried to move 25 tonnes of steel and boat on a muddy canal bottom will know that it takes less time than to tell to lose one's temper with it. At the fourth lock something went in the blades. It was beginning to get dark. As the engine chocking fitfully and pouring black smoke, we started up the longish pound below the top lock. The lock keeper said "Go on the tow rope, you can stop 'er going in the blades then if there’s trouble", we did. The butty got stuck and there was no direct pull to get her off so we put her on a short strap, the moment she was going nicely we let her off, the tow rope snaked out like a devil whipped round the head lamp and snapped it like a twig and snapped the tow rope like string! The butty had hit something else as we released her. "Oh God" said we and tied up in despair, soaked. Tired out, and miserable. Next morning we got the rope out of the blades and started through Braunston with no lights on the butty. The cold weather had made everyone light their fires and as luck would have it we met a string of boats. The air in the tunnel grew thicker and thicker; it became almost impossible to see one's own bows; certainly only just possible to see anyone else's lights. I was on the motor and had a bad patch of bumping; that is that I couldn't judge my distance and kept ricocheting from one wall to the other. Terrified that at any moment I should see the bows of approaching boats slide into my light; Suddenly there seemed to be a cotter beat to my own engine and staring into the dark dimly distinguished and approaching orange glow. I slowed right down and kept my bows crashing into the wall on my side of the tunnel; anything I thought is better than for them to swing over to the wrong side. Where my butty was I had no idea but could hear vague crashes and prayed they could see the motor cabin light to steer by. Suddenly and only just as our bows swung over the long crocodile nose of a boat without lights crept past ours. Their light was suspended from their mast which had given it the appearance of great distance in the cloudy atmosphere! My entire inside did a sort of wild flap; I certainly hadn't expected them for at least five minutes and vision of what a crash in a tunnel could be like were too awful to contemplate! Not quite so amusing as an experience had by some other trainees. Slatty was on the motor and beating quite cheerfully through the tunnel when something made her Ulm rolled to observe with absolute horror that the butty had disappeared;- there was the snubber and that was all. She began anxiously to haul on the trailing end of rope convinced that it must have broken and visions of a long reverse down the tunnel. So convinced was she that they had dropped off that it didn't occur to her to shout. Suddenly the bows of the butty, -swam into view and slapped into her stern. 'What the hell!?" screamed the butty steerer "Whatever ARE you doing!" The butty lights had merely failed to function suddenly and she had been cheerfully steering by the distant motor light. Very difficult to explain! Tunnel stories are man}' and varied: one tells of two sailors who tried boating after the last war. They disliked tunnels and decided on a new technique. They neatly jetted their boats, set the engine ahead, steered them into the tunnel and walked off and over the hills; to arrive the further entrance just in time to stop a pair going in. "Boats coming" they said. "Don't be daft that don't make no difference, who's are they since you're so bright?" "Ours." The startled boaters stopped just in time to see the sailors step gaily onto the bows of the breasted pair: abreast and sail off! Another, this from trainees in Blisworth tunnel. They were proceeding through one evening when Margaret. Steering saw the lights of boats approaching, she slowed down and kept her nose into the wall. The" seemed to be no sound and she watched their approach with interest. The bows and cratch slid past hers and vanished!

No explanation has ever been offered for that one; especially as the person concerned was a very unpsychic type! I always had a horror of falling off a boat in a tunnel and once when our lights failed and we had to crawl along the top planks to strap on a hurricane lamp it nearly came true; fortunately we were broken backed and loaded with coal so it would have been a long slide first. But still -! We had a difficult time going round the Oxford bends and got muddied on the really wicked double bend in the middle. Someone, bless their hearts, came and towed us off. We eventually achieved Birmingham, but on that trip decided that we'd try and do the three our pound from the top of Knole in the dark: on the assumption it was to be a moonlight night. It wasn't of course, merely rammed and got darker and darker/finally/as we were about to give in Kay having hit a bridge. Through night blindness, it cleared up and the rain clouds parted and it turned into a heavenly night. I shall never forget coming into Tysley; I was on the motor and having crawled round the bends getting by degrees the business of steering; having to half all the shadows to find the bank, was beginning to enjoy myself.

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Anne Tester. She fully understands the site's terms and conditions

Memories of the second world war through the eyes of an 8 -14 year old.

Southfields, London. 1939.

As an eight year old, growing up in London, I was first aware that something was threatening our serene life at home in Southfields, when our local park, Wimbledon Park, was suddenly dug up and an underground air raid shelter, complete with sandbags, was built in the middle of the grass. At the same time a battery of search lights was placed at the entrance to the drive to our school, Riversdale School in Southfields and barrage balloons appeared in the sky overhead. We were all issued with gas masks in brown cardboard boxes and I can remember the tinge of resentment because my sister was young enough to have a Micky Mouse one!
There was then real concern in the family (as carefully hidden from my sister and me as possible) when a letter from school informed my parents that we were to be evacuated to Guildford to live with a family there. With this letter came a list of requirements we had to take including a grey blanket (always a puzzle to me as I had never seen one) My sister was five years old and therefore my mother was allowed to accompany us to Guilford but of course leaving my father on his own in London. As he had served in the first world war he was just too old to be ‘called up’ for this war.
Unknown to me, and never really discovered because my mother never liked talking about those years, arrangements were made for my sister and me to go and stay with my aunt and uncle in Countesthorpe just until the threat of war had subsided (as was the common feeling at that time).

Countesthorpe, Leicestershire July 1939.

We were driven in another uncle’s car up to Countesthorpe, leaving my parents in London and I can well remember feeling very car sick and missing my teddybear which had been left behind in London. It was later sent to me by post after I had written a forlorn letter to my parents to say I wanted to come back to them. (I still have that letter which was saved by my mother and will stay in the family archives). It was also the first time I had seen a level crossing, probably the one in Station Road in Countesthorpe and also fields and cows other than from a train.
Apparently we were quite a curiosity in the village as we spoke with a London accent and because we had arrived before any of the real evacuees, very few people had met any strangers. A little girl, called Iris, came as an evacuee to the house next door some time afterwards and I expect other children were evacuated to the village later but I was not made aware of them.

The start of the war

The war did break out and we had to continue to stay with my aunt, uncle, cousin and grandparents in the house, called St Donats, in Willoughby Road, opposite Clark’s Farm. We had such a lot of freedom compared with our life in London and were able to walk around at will and enjoy such things as viewing the steam train as it left Countesthorpe station with its smoke billowing out. The trick was to wait until the engine disappeared under the bridge then rush to the other side in time to see it emerge. The fun was to be quick enough to be engulfed by all the smoke!
In the spring the embankment was covered with cowslips which we used to pick and on the lawns of some of the houses built along the line those cowslips still appear. Another event that occurred in the spring was the annual mass movement of frogs to and from the old brick quarry next to the railway line. I think they must have moved across to the farm pond in the Cottage Homes farm and in the process many were squashed on the road. It proved how many more frogs there were in those days.
As we were so near to the farm we were also given the freedom to wander round and look at the animals. We learnt to take the cows round to the fields in the lane, feed the calves and hens, milk the cows and join in the haymaking. Herbert Clark, the farmer, had an old white horse which was used for all the farm work including the haymaking when he pulled a mechanical rake to gather the hay. The rake was curved and operated with a long handled lever. We were allowed to ride on this piece of machinery and pull up the handle when instructed. Of special interest to us as children was the history of the horse, called Bob, because he had survived the first world war and still had shrapnel showing below his skin! He had previously worked at Western Park in Leicester, so we were told. Being close to animals with fields to roam in, muck heaps to slide down and dens to build I am sure helped to take away the pain of separation from our parents.
But I was very homesick and constantly worrying, as I picked up bits of news from the conversation around us but I did not know enough to be able to ask questions. Children accepted that adults had a world of their own and were not told too much for fear of upsetting them.
As well as the strain of being away from our parents there were some bewildering things happening around us which must have caused some anxiety too. We saw Spitfires fly low overhead and were told that the brother of our neighbour was the pilot of one of them which was a thrill but for a couple of children who had probably never seen a plane so close before also very strange.
Those same neighbours turned their tennis court into a chicken run (such was the need to produce food) and we were always having to apologise to them when our fox terrier, Buster, chased and sometimes caught one of their hens. We were on a constant state of alert to make sure he did not get out, not only for the sake of the hens but because he and the collie in the farm opposite were on deadly fighting terms. Such were the lengths to which they would go to establish their superiority that an arrangement was made for the farm dog to be out in the morning and for our dog to be out in the afternoon. How peaceful our dogs are these days, taken for walks and quite content to stay in their gardens. Maybe the owners are more responsible these days or was it part of the upheaval of the war?
Other strange activities included the strengthening the garage with extra wooden beams, the windows covered with strips of tape to prevent the shattering of glass and the curtains lined with blackout material. We had to be very strict about letting lights shine from the windows at night.
With the increasing threat of bombing my uncle set about building an air raid shelter inside the house and the dining room floor was dug up. The shelter was built with bricks and concrete with a reinforced roof and steps down into the inside. I think it was called a Morrison shelter. It was a great place to play both inside and on top as it was about 4ft. high and 2ft. deep but I don’t remember ever having to use it as an air raid shelter.
We had a game based around our doll’s house which had been made by my father from wooden boxes, decorated and furnished by my mother and carried by them both on the train up from London on the first Christmas of the war. It had lights powered by batteries (double ones with a 2 inch piece of connecting metal on the side) and curtains that could be drawn across the windows. With it we played out all the wartime activities that were part of our ordinary lives and the games always featured an irate warden(always played by my cousin), who would shout at us to ‘put those lights out!’
We also played with armies of tin soldiers and guns that fired match sticks, a game instigated by my cousin who was slightly older than us. He had a ready audience in the two of us and these games and the knowledge he had of the countryside (I learned the names of many birds, trees and flowers) added a lot of interest to our disrupted lives. I could point out to this day the spot along Banbury Lane where we used to set out the battle scenes in the ditch. These would be left there overnight and then we would return next day to continue our game.
I learned to climb trees and on achieving a certain height was allowed to carve my initials on the tree. A particular willow on the bend in the lane leading to Cheney’s farm proved too difficult for me to climb because it had no lower branches and was the sole province of my cousin and some of his friends.
All these exploits were, I think, only in the early days of the war because as the war progressed, there was greater threat of attack and we had to keep nearer to home. We were also restricted as to where we could walk and we were not allowed to go beyond the crossroads of the two lanes in Willoughby Road without a pass. At the junction of the lanes in the field to the left of Willoughby Road there was a searchlight station which may have been why Willoughby was ‘out of bounds’. The city of Leicester did receive some daytime bombing but I only remember hearing an air raid warning during the day on one occasion when we had to go into the garage. I still hate to hear that noise.

Going to school

Our school was a County school, on the corner of Foston Road, Countesthorpe. It had a large room for the 5-7 year olds and two other rooms divided by a wood and glass partition for the older children up to the age of 11 years. There was a tarmac playground in the front of the building and another at the back and brick lavatories outside near the neighbouring house. I have a recollection of them being cold and dark and wet!
I remember little of our lessons except using slate boards to write on and the horrible noise they made as you scraped away. We did have handwriting classes and my memory has been jogged by childhood feelings of embarrassment. The teacher would write on the blackboard a letter of the alphabet and to illustrate how your writing should ‘flow’, she would say ‘your writing should go on and on and on’. As my name at that time was Anne Donne, this always made the class giggle.
The desks were made for two children to sit at with the seat attached to the desk and it had ink wells which were not used and lift-up lids. I always liked to tidy out my desk, a task I seem to remember was left until Friday afternoon. I have vague memories, too of P.T. in the playground which consisted of very formal exercises involving the arms and legs all moving in a uniform fashion and I remember my difficulty in trying to keep up with all the others.
I remember, too, taking a contribution each Monday morning for my National Savings Certificates, of games in the playground such as Oranges and Lemons and hating to get caught and of funerals passing by on the way to the cemetery when we all had to stand still and the boys took off their caps.
Typical of childhood memories, always focussed on food, I remember having to walk home to Willoughby Road for lunch and then walk back again for afternoon school. When winter arrived and it was not suitable to walk all that way (we were probably further away than most children) we brought an egg and bread and our kind teacher cooked us scramble egg on the top of the tortoise stove in our classroom.(the only form of heat) Later a kitchen was built onto the school and I was very impressed with the chocolate pudding that was included in the introductory menu we had to take home! I never did have a meal from that kitchen as I was then old enough to go to the secondary school but my sister did.

Re-united with our parents

When my parents left London they came to live with us until they found a house to rent. Houses to rent were in short supply especially as my parents were looking for something in the area of Countesthorpe with a garden and it was only by luck that they spotted a house in Winchester Road as they went by on the bus. The house had been rented out before and was in good condition by the standards of those days. It had a bathroom and indoor toilet and three bedrooms and a lovely long garden backing onto open fields which stretched across to the village. There were open fields to the front too and still are.
I loved the garden and so did my father who set about growing all the vegetables he could to give us some variety in our diets. Everything that could not be eaten was composted and he saved his own seed. He only bought the odd plant from such places as Woolsworths as there were no garden centres and nurseries were expensive as well as being inaccessible unless within cycling distance. The government booklet ’Dig for Victory’ urged everyone to grow their own vegetables and flower borders were sacrificed to provide food. We did not, for some reason have hens, unlike many other people, and I can only think that neither parent would have been able to face killing them when the time came.
My father was so good at economising, using up any pieces of wood to make little cupboards, stools and toys or repairs to the house. He repaired our shoes and cut our hair, collected stones from the garden to make a terrace and path down the garden so that my mother could hang out the washing and saved all the spare pieces of grass to make a lawn.
My mother also liked gardening but the burden of coping with household tasks took up most of her time. Washing the clothes consisted of boiling them in a galvanised boiler in the corner of the kitchen which was heated by gas. They were then lifted into the sink for rinsing and put through a mangle which had to be anchored to the edge of the sink. It was exhausting and time consuming, filled the non-centrally heated house with steam and because there was a need to use everything to its utmost, was followed by extensive cleaning to use up the valuable hot, soapy water. Condensation in the house was always a problem and the airing of clothes and beds a constant priority with glazed pottery hot water bottles very much in use.
Coal fires created dust and had to be cleaned out, wooden and tiled floors had to be mopped or scrubbed and rugs shaken in the garden as there was no such thing in our household as a vacuum cleaner. I remember having to step onto newspaper when the floor had been scrubbed in order to keep it clean as long as possible and certainly until it was dry as so much energy had gone into the cleaning of it. Incidentally, coal fires created dirt everywhere and after visiting the town, our feet would be quite black with the dirt we had picked up.
Economising was a way of life for everyone and of course was entirely accepted by us, as children. There were not the goods in the shops to tempt us and we rarely visited Leicester although there was a regular bus service.
We made our own decorations for Christmas out of pieces of coloured paper, used up any fabric which we could find for rugs for the floor, unpicked knitted garments and re- knitted them. Except for school uniform, our clothes were all home made using a treadle sewing machine, very often from used material and nothing was wasted. This has had an everlasting influence on me and I still see possibilities for a use in all sorts of objects and materials. All this was widely accepted during the war and continued long afterwards as well when supplies of materials were almost nonexistent.

The following is an actual account of my mothers introduction into military service in WW2. She had been writing this for some years before she passed away in 1997 and therefore sadly never managed to finish her lifes work. It was all hand written and I put it onto computer last year (at an average of 15 wpm!). It basically tells her story of her military service up to when she was promoted to a cook. Apart from using Molly as her name all other people mentioned have their real names or nicknames used.
It starts at chapter 11 when her mum Jesse finds out she, Molly, has joined up in Wandsworth, England.

Chapter 11

Jessies Shock

Mollys friend Lily a perky faced sixteen years old all of 4ft 10in in her stockingd feet found themselves turning in the entrance to a new building. High on a board there was a poster with a young woman blowing a bugle with a banner underneath displayed on the banner was a cross in red. This is it said Lil. They climbed the steps and pushed open the main door.This must be the entrance hall, said Lil. The walls were covered in posters and there were several doors leading off the entrance hall. Lily timidly pushed one door open, withdrew and whispered No one there. Molly crept to the next one, Not there, said Lil look it says gents. Molly looked up and squinted Oh yes with a giggle said,lets try here she pushed a pair of double doors open, Nothing in there only a ruddy great dance hall. Wheres that go, Lil pointed to a staircase. That must be it, look that notice first floor enrolment room the nurses must be up there.
With bated breath, they straightened their hats, forged ahead to the unknown. Molly timidly tapped on the door, a voice called out Come in As the door opened the brightness of the room startled her. She and Lily had been expecting rolls of bandages and stretchers slings but these were nowhere to be seen. The room contained a highly polished desk. Sitting at the desk underneath a powerful electric light bulb sat a woman of huge proportions. She was dressed in a kind of uniform which her brothers had worn when on leave but this persons outfit was obviously of much grander material. Upon her left breast there were some decorations and upon her shoulders and down the front of her jacket there were some of the brightest brass buttons one had ever seen, enhanced more so by the dazzling light. So sorry, weve come to the wrong room stammered Molly trying to hide her embarrassment. Come in my dears come in and let me help you said the company commander as Molly was to find out before long. Have you come to join us my dears The C.C. opened her arms wide and with a smile almost as wide urged them both to take a seat in front of the desk.
Well we came looking for the place where you learn first aid said Lil. Then you have come to the right place answered the most charming creature behind the desk. Molly recalled the woman certainly knew how to put one at ones ease. Molly in latter years looking back could almost visualise that officers thoughts of how shed got a right couple of nannas here to deal with. We do weekly sessions of first aid, a most valuable asset as you'll agree. Later on you will be issued with a uniform once we have got your measurements. The shoes are easier my assistant will show you into room 6 where you can both collect a pair after you have signed the forms. Shoes gasped Molly and Lil. We have no money to pay for shoes, just a little weve saved to join the club. Not a thing to pay for dears everything is free. Molly glanced at Lil (exchanged glances) whatever next, this must be a lovely club to belong to. Just sign on the dotted line my dears repeat after me and you will be doing your king and country a wonderful service! Dazed by all this goodwill and being accepted so warmly almost hypnotised Molly and Lil, they automatically signed the papers and sat back to here the date of the first meeting. Friday evenings at seven o'clock prompt, now collect your shoes from room 6, you will meet lots more Territorials.
Still dazzled by all the brightness and good will Molly and Lil were shown by her aide to room 6. Here they were issued with a pair of heavy leather lace up shoes. They will be rather hard to get used to at first, but here is a tin of dubbin to rub well into them as often as you can. This will help to soften the leather, said the person issuing the shoes.
Goodbye, see you with the rest of the new recruits on Friday at 7 o'clock prompt the door was opened for them on that occasion as if they were two VIPs and they both beat a hasty retreat clutching their shoes.
After they had gone several paces down the road towards home both deep in thought, Molly and Lil came suddenly to a complete halt and said as though in one voice TERRITORIALS! Never heard of them, I haven't said Lil Nor me replied Molly. Should'nt it have been Red Cross Territorials asked Lil. Well I can remember her saying something about volunteer auxiliaries and that we will be taught first aid and that it was now under another name replied Molly. Didn't expect to get any shoes did you Lil? No bit clumpy aint they, but I suppose this stuffle work. What was that bit about softening them up for marching. Do nurses march?
Well we had money to join but we never expected to get a Bob and a pair of shoes er boots more like it said Lil. No it can't be such a bad club to belong to then, said Molly eh? They arrived outside the entrance to Mollys flats. Coming in Lil, No, I'd better get back and show my mum my shoes, Ta-ra for now, see you in the morning then we can talk on the way to work. Molly wished her cheerio then and made her way to her front door. In answer to her knock her mother opened the door. Broad smiles were exchanged between them. How'd you get on luv said mum. Then she saw the box holding the shoes. What's this? You'll never guess mum, we've joined a right good club. They paid us a Bob and gave us a pair of shoes, aint that grand, and whats more we are going to get a smart uniform later on when they've had time to make them.
Molly's voice froze in her mouth at the look on her mothers face. For what seemed like several minutes but could have been no more than seconds there was complete silence in the room. Jesses hand had flown to her face covering her mouth. Her brows were knitting together in a deep frown of perplexity. She looked across at Bert, Molly&'s gaze followed her and she saw her father sitting bolt upright in his chair by the fire. Whats this all about? said he stopping dead in his tracks with his Woodbine dog-end halfway to his lips. My gawd, Bert what've they been and gorn and done, the silly bitches! Red Cross, I told you Red Cross first aid, you remember up at the hall, like Mrs Murphy said they wanted? Well mum, and here Molly swallowed deeply, she had the foreboding all hadn't got according to her mothers plan. The only room there with anyone in was this lady. She hadn't a nurses uniform on but it did look nice and shiny, like a soldiers only better. She was so nice really. She said we would be quite good enough. Lily is a bit small and I am not sixteen yet but she said that she could make that OK and let us join. Let you join be buggered, her mother said now beginning to get her temper up. What did you say it was called Auxiliary Volunteer Service, we've got to meet the new Territorial recruits next Friday. Thats it then gel they've joined the Terriers by the sounds of it, said Bert, Shes under sixteen, lets get her out, said Jess anxiously to Bert.
Oh no, said Molly, turning to Lil after all, Lil's me mate and she is just sixteen and I did say we'd go together. Well, said Jess, It is peacetime anyway and its true it will be somewhere for you and Lil to go every Friday and you can learn first aid. She nodded and winked at Bert. Now that her mother had got over the initial shock Molly recalled the fact that they had been told there were many other duties that they would find very interesting. In fact Molly and Lil began to look forward to the following Friday night.
Friday night came and with some intrepidation Molly and Lil wended there way along to the hall to find out what this first aid business was all about. They arrived to find several other girls and women of all different age groups gathered in the hall. As weeks went by Molly found she was the youngest of the squad. The evening passed all too quickly. They were told they would be instructed in discipline, marching, first aid, and various duties, including rifle drill. Rifle drill! Molly and Lil looked at each other. Cor thats a bit stong eh, unless you shot em first, then applied the first aid. Whatever the were in for it certainly would be an interesting Friday evening and as mum said Oh Chamberlain has signed the peace pact now, it will be somewhere for her to go Bert instead of getting left on the shelf reading a book eh?. The weeks went by smoothly enough. In Molly's household the world news was rarely discussed in depth, as indeed it wasn't in most working class households where they were going at the weekend, if they could afford to go to the flicks or even a trip occasionally to the local dance hall seemed to bb the extent of the conversation for the less well educated teenagers. Molly and Lil had been promoted to machines in the laundry. Lil worked a heated machine, which as she put it ironed mens dickeys. That was a nickname given to the front of a mans shirt unattached to a white shirt. This front was heavily starched. Placed whilst still very damp on a flat machine. Then by pressing a pedal the cover was dropped down to stiffen the dickey. Molly ironed the collars. Her machine slid from side to side giving the collars a high polish. One set of collars Molly ironed she noticed had the name Ribbentrop printed inside the band.
One Friday evening the members of the Auxiliary T.S. were given instructions on what to do if they received their enlistment telegrams. Molly recalled how there was a mixed reaction to the announcement from the commandant. She realised (in later years) the less well educated of the women's squad were taken aback more so than the better educated. Several of the women came from well to do homes, where world affairs were discussed over dinner table and in the office. The news came as no surprise to them. Others such herself and Lily whose parents were struggling to make a living, never bothered to read the newspaper to the extent to suspect anything between the lines. The football pools results and bits of scandal were as far as they got.
The recruits had been selected who were going to be given a rank. They were about fifty women of various ages. They appointed four sergeants, four corporals and four lance corporals. They had been the first to receive their uniforms. The rest were informed their uniforms were coming along shortly, to compensate for using their own civvies they would each receive a few pence army pay.
Low and behold the very next week the telegram arrived instructing Molly she must report to the hall ready to depart to an unknown destination. Molly's life had been very hum-drum and although the last thing she wanted to happen was a war she felt fluttering of nervous butterflies in the pit of her stomach but at the same time nervous excitement at the prospects of being transported to a far off land.
A frantic tapping of the knocker, Molly opened the door to Lil. Have you got what I got? She said in a breathless voice. Haven't lost much time have they? Said Jess, covering her eyes with he apron.

Pre-War

I was born in Melton Mowbray, a small market town now famous for pork pies and Stilton cheese, on the 19th August 1917. The Great War was in its last stages, leaving many families without fathers and sons. My father was an agricultural engineer and he spent his days going around the farms and great houses in the area mending farm machinery and servicing central heating installations in the large halls. Mother always stayed at home, she was a wonderful cook and as food was plentiful, we lived well. My brother was born two years later and a sister when I was ten. My father was always happy with his life but my mother was ambitious for us to improve our station.

The chance came in the form of my father’s sister, who had married a local builder and had two sons. Their business was doing well but in order to be really successful the expanding South was the place to be. By coincidence, as I was leaving school at the age of fifteen my Aunt was moving to London. Her condition for moving was that I became her companion and the daughter that she had always wanted.

In London I attended many social gatherings, tea dances and functions. To be seen in the right places meant contracts and they were coming in thick and fast.

We lived in Southfields and on a Saturday afternoon we would go to see the local team play football, Fulham. My best friend Betty, whom I’d met at a dance, invited me to her house and I was surprised to find that she lived next door to Joe Edelston who was a former Fulham player and was now in charge of the reserve team who seemed to be winning everything. He was one of the first coaches to gain qualifications and his methods were seen as too revolutionary in many quarters, but much more importantly he had three sons, all good looking and unattached!

I soon started going out with Joe, the eldest son. We had little money but when we did we would go to the local cinema to see the latest release. My favourite was Humphrey Bogart, “a real man”. At night we would listen to the radio to hear the latest play or short story. In summer we would go for long walks by the river and during the tennis tournament at Wimbledon we could always get in for free when the doors were opened in the afternoon. Life was always easy paced and gentle.

The big crisis pre-war was the abdication of the king. At the time everyone was confused as to what was really happening. When Edward finally gave up the throne, everyone was very sad and Mrs Simpson was the most hated woman around. The new king was seen as being weak and not groomed for the job, but everyone loved his wife. However, during the Blitz they really came into their own, touring the bombed out areas and talking to everyone they came into contact with.

I remember going past Croydon airport one day, on the runway were two large planes with black swastikas on them. The sight sent a shiver down my spine and made many of us fear for the future as we watched the growing emergence of the military power of Germany once again. It was no surprise to any of us when they marched into Poland, as no-one believed that Chamberlain and his piece of paper could halt the military machine that we had witnessed in action in Spain. On a brighter note just before the war started uncle bought a television, the first one in our road. Everyone came around to have a look at the new invention and the reception was really very good. However, when war started programmes finished, much to the annoyance of the family.

1939-1940

The winter of 1939-1940 was long, dark and very cold. Joe was one of the first to be called up as he worked for Shellmex and was an expert on petroleum. He was sent at once to France with the British Expeditionary Force and so began a long and anxious time. Prior to him going we had become engaged as so many of our friends had done. He wrote to say how cold it was and how ill prepared the troops were, not all of them had the proper equipment and some didn’t even have a gun, but they survived with the help of the local wine and goodwill.

Back home the criticism of the government had grown to alarming levels and it was a great relief to everyone when Winston Churchill took over as Prime Minister. At last we had someone to look up to as a leader, a fighter who would never give in. In June Dunkirk was turned from a disaster into a national triumph as the troops were evacuated. Joe came home on a barge and was taken to Aldershot. It was a great relief when I got a call from him to say he was Okay. I was desperate to see him and got the train to Aldershot as soon as I could. He looked so well but he had changed, he was much harder and more worldly wise but after witnessing so many tragedies, I couldn’t expect anything else.

In August the bombs started to fall. Joe was posted to Swindon and because women were not allowed to stay overnight with their boyfriends, we decided to get married. I had to make all the arrangements and we were married in Wandsworth shortly afterwards. Joe’s unit was moved to Yorkshire and the lovely couple whom he was billeted with said I could go back and stay with them to be near him. Soon afterwards he was moved to just outside London at Hadlow Down and after moving back to the capital I would see him every Sunday.

At that time the Blitz was on and from dusk until dawn we would spend our time in the underground shelters. We would do our shopping in the daylight and hope that there was no air raid. We did our shopping in Clapham and how I admired the stallholders who carried on as normal even though they had been up all night because of the raids. On the bus you could see the bombed out ruins of houses and flats but somehow we never thought that a bomb would actually hit us. At night the noise was terrific with the sound of ante aircraft guns and the mighty explosions of bombs landing. Many times we put out incendiary bombs that had landed in the garden.

My luck was in when Joe’s unit was moved again, this time to Hatfield. He had met a lovely lady in the village who had been evacuated from Cardiff. She had a lovely house and needed help in looking after eight little girls who had been evacuated from London. One of the girls was only three and was totally bewildered after leaving the city. She became my special charge.

The Blitz was still on and on many nights we heard the planes on their way to bomb London. The country was a refuge for the girls and we would go for long walks in the woods that surrounded us. One day as we were walking I found a pheasant’s nest with eight eggs in it. It was a great temptation to take the eggs as we had no such luxuries but I let the pheasant have her babies and upheld the law of the countryside.

On the whole we were a happy lot and I was able to see Joe frequently. He would bring his army friends to see us and they always brought gifts of sweets and eggs, which were considered luxuries and strictly rationed. It was a sad day for everyone when the unit was moved once again to Dene Park in Horsham, a lovely place with abundant wildlife and a herd of deer. It didn’t take Joe long to find me a new billet close to him, with a family who had been evacuated from Portsmouth. They lived in a cottage on top of a hill with no bathroom, no running water and an outside toilet. If we wanted a wash we had to draw water from the well and heat it on the copper boiler. To do this we had to light a fire under the copper, which, at times, was much easier said than done. Washing day was always a Monday, which was easy, compared to keeping the deer off the washing line as they continually tried to eat the wet laundry.

Joe had a friend who asked if I could find some accommodation for his wife in the village. The people in the village were only too willing to help and from then on many wives would come down and stay for short breaks. The only problem the men had in getting here was petrol for their bikes. I don’t know how they did it or where the petrol came from, but the local pond was soon full of submerged petrol cans. At the back of everyone’s mind was the fact that the men would soon be going overseas and some of them would not return. Life at Dene Park was much easier than elsewhere as we had a plentiful supply of eggs, milk and cheese from the farms and game from the abundant wildlife, duck and rabbit.

The air raids continued and several German planes were brought down close to us. The dog fights in the sky above us were breathtaking. The spitfires seemed to be more mobile and faster than their foes but our admiration for the pilots was unlimited, they were the true heroes of the hour.

The winter soon came and brought with it short frosty days and long cold nights but we were tucked up in our cottage with warm log fires and time to ourselves and time to entertain the children with a game of cards. At Christmas the cottage was cut off by snow and it seemed that the war could not touch us, but always at the back of our minds was the thought of how much time we had left together. The family we stayed with had two children with whom we have stayed in touch to this day, exchanging letters and cards throughout the years. Sadly, their parents died many years ago but we have treasured memories of their kindness and friendship in our time of need.

1941

The war was going badly for Britain throughout the year with the Axis powers taking over most of Europe, Africa and the Far East. At home even Churchill was coming in for criticism. The Japanese took Hong Kong and Singapore, pushed into Burma and started to threaten India, my worst nightmare was coming true, Joe was going to fight in Burma.

At the start of the year I had wondered how long it would be before we would be separated and the thought of having a child and a bit of Joe forever had grown and grown. In the spring I knew that I was with child. The doctor advised me to move back to Melton Mowbray to be with my parents. Back at home I kept very well. My mother, who was still a young woman, was eligible for war work and had a job looking after the local doctor. This meant that I looked after the rest of the family. I was kept busy making clothes for the baby out of any piece of cloth I could get hold of. My father was kept very busy looking after all the farm machinery in the area. This of course meant many perks; a sack of potatoes, a sack of swedes, eggs, a rabbit, an old hen and if one of the farmers killed a pig, a bit of offal or even a roast. We had so little meat and many times the only ration was corned beef, so it was corned beef hash with plenty of vegetables. It is no surprise to anyone who lived through the war that nowadays they can’t abide the taste of corned beef.

At the end of 1941 there was a brief hint of better things as America came into the war after the bombing of Pearl Harbour and Germany invaded Russia, thus opening up another front.

On June 3rd 1943 my military career began at Prestatyn Holiday Camp in North Wales.

In the following six weeks we were introduced to the rudiments of army life. The weather was mostly warm and sunny, but on the odd occasions when it did rain, it was a torrential downpour and we were usually struggling up some distant hill clad in PT shorts, ammunition boots and the all enveloping oilskin gas capes. This elegant outfit made you quite wet inside from trapped perspiration and we would arrive back at camp like a pack of drowned rats. This exercise was known as a road walk but consisted of a ten mile hike, running and marching alternately.

The culmination of our basic training was the dreaded assault course. That's where I received my "baptism of fire". After negotiating all the usual hazards the course ended at the sand dunes. There we had to drop to the ground and fire ten rounds of live ammunition at a target which was on a raft in the sea.

We were doing the course in groups of six. Unfortunately the team before ours contained a not very bright lad who had difficulty in following instructions. He managed to be facing the wrong way and was firing back up the course. We suddenly realised that there were live bullets whistling past our ears. We were pleased when he had finished firing and somewhat relieved that none of us had been hit.

Next day was passing out parade and those of us who were joining the Royal Corps of Signals were sent off to Royal Signals Depot at Catterick Camp. Here we were all interviewed by a Captain who held the exalted title of "Trade Section Officer".

My own interview went as follows:- I marched in, saluted and stood smartly to attention. "Now then Laddie," said the TSO, "so you want to be a wireless operator?"

"No Sir," I replied. "Why not?" asked the officer, somewhat incredulously. "It would drive me quite potty sir, all those dots and dashes in my earholes. Sir, I couldn't stand it."

"If you don't want to be a wireless operator, what do you want to be?"

"Well sir," I replied. "With respect, if you look at my notes on your desk, you'll see that when I joined up I expressed a desire to become a dispatch rider."

"Good heavens man, you can't be one of those."

"Why not sir?"

"You're too intelligent. Your aptitude tests show you must go into a grade B trade and dispatch rider is only a grade D trade. Anyway the War Office are not training any DRs at the present time. I'll put you down as a keyboard operator, that's a little different." End of interview.

I was no longer a private. I was now a Signalman and later that day we were issued with Royal Signals cap badges. Also some trainee dispatch riders had been issued with goggles and crash hats. Ah well, c'est la guerre.

I discovered that keyboard operator was teleprinter operator or OKBL- operator keyboard and line. The line part referred to Morse Code, so I had to face the dreaded dots and dashes after all. We were to be trained in London. We arrived in Putney and were billeted in large empty houses. For the next five months we ate in the local Territorial drill hall and for five days a week we were back to school - Mayfield School for Girls. We were free in the evenings unless we were on guard duty or the Defence Platoon. This consisted of twenty men and an NCO. I never quite found out what we were supposed to do, but I think the general idea was that we were supposed to defend London in the event of an unexpected enemy attack.

Because we were not in barracks, there was no roll call at night and we could return to billets when we liked so long as we appeared for morning parade at 8.00 A.M. next day.

On Sundays there was a big church parade complete with a military band. After church we were free for the rest of the day. I used to catch the train to Windsor to visit my family. The last train back was just after nine, but I would always catch the earlier train so I could meet up with my mates in the Black and White milk bar in Putney High Street before returning to our billets.

One Sunday I was walking to Windsor Station when I ran into my old friend Jim who was in the Fleet Air Arm. He asked me to have a drink with him. At first I refused saying I had a train to catch. He had lots of news to tell me, having just returned from the USA and it might have been a long time before our paths crossed again. Eventually he persuaded me and we went into the Royal Oak. We had a couple of drinks and a chat, then we shook hands and I went off for the last train.

When I walked out of the station at Putney, I was amazed to see not the usual gloom of the London blackout but a red glow and some very bright lights down the road. As I approached I was confronted by a scene of utter devastation. Thirty minutes before, an enemy bomber had dropped a single bomb, presumably intended for Putney Bridge. The bridge was still there but the Black and White Milk Bar and the crowded dance hall above it were just a mass of smouldering debris. The lights illuminated the firemen and the rescue squad sifting through the ruins, but there was no hope of finding anyone alive. They never found out how many lives were lost. I lost many of my comrades and would certainly have been with them had it not been for the persuasive powers of my friend Jim. Wherever he may be today, I can only say, "A million thanks Jim. I owe my life to you."

As a postscript to the above story, having contacted the London Metropolitan Archives, I discovered that they have a book in their library entitled "The Blitz Then and Now" which refers to the bombing of the Black and White Milk Bar. It happened on 7th November 1943.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) THE SUMMARY OF LIZ’S STORY — In the Spring of 1938,

faced with the imminent threat of the Nazi occupation of

Austria — the “Austrian Auschluss” - in which several of

her family perished, she recounts her parent’s escape

from Vienna, arriving in London as destitute, Jewish

refugees. How, on their arrival, her Father was interned

for six months on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien, her

parent’s subsequent work in London factories, her own

birth in Paddington Hospital in 1942 and her early

memories of her first home — a flat overlooking Battersea

Power Station…

LIZ’S STORY — To be honest, I really do not remember exactly, when I first found out about my family’s tragic past. But thinking back now, it must have been from quite an early age, when I learnt all about it.
I had been told that their nightmare began in Vienna in the early Spring of 1938. For it was then, that a powerful enemy, “The Nazis”, led by a man called Adolf Hitler, had invaded their country, irrevocably changing their lives forever...
Both my parents were born into the Jewish faith — my Father Hans, in November 1913, and my Mother Gutta, in December 1916. They grew up, between the wars, in the beautiful city of Vienna, Austria, where for many years most of their family had lived — leading happy and useful lives.
I understand their first introduction took place by my paternal Grandparents at their club. And although the preparations for their subsequent wedding were sadly overshadowed by the presence of the Nazi Reich, my parents were eventually married at a Viennese Synagogue on Wednesday 29th June 1938.
As it happened, they could not have chosen a more tumultuous time to embark on their married lives. For just three months previously, on March 12th, they had witnessed the momentous day of the “Austrian Auschluss”, when Germany had occupied their country.
Just two days later, amid cheering crowds and pealing bells, Herr Hitler drove into Vienna. Standing upright in his open car - the procession headed by tanks and followed by guns - arrived at the “Hotel Imperial”. Here, he appeared on the balcony to take the “Fascist Salute”, whilst both Austrian and German troops marched by.
Needless to say, the enthusiasm for the arrival of the German Dictator — who since becoming Chancellor in 1933 had been rapidly oppressing the German Jews — was not shared by the Jewish population of Austria; as by then, they clearly knew what was in store for them. Their fears were confirmed when within a week, on March 18th, a “Pogram”, called by the Nazi newspapers, as “The Great Spring Cleaning”, was carried out. Immediately, the Jewish community were excluded from their professions and shops were forced to put up placards saying, “Jewish Concerns”. Even the theatres suffered the same fate, which meant that the voices of artists such as the famous tenor Richard Tauber were silenced.
It was from then, that my family realised that their safety could not be guaranteed, if they remained in their native city and sought a means of escape. But alas, for some, that escape never came. Significantly, my paternal Grandparents were shot and tragically did not survive. In later years, my Father reflected that this was more merciful than had they have been interned in a concentration camp. But of course their untimely deaths meant, that my brother and I were sadly denied the pleasure of knowing them,
Tragedy also occurred amongst my maternal family. My Grandmother had two sisters whom she dearly loved, but alas, they both perished too. One developed Tuberculosis and died when she was being transported on a dreadful “Death Train”, whilst the other — to avoid the fate of the gas chamber — committed suicide by jumping out of a window. Then, there was an Aunt who hung herself and an Uncle and Aunt, who were in a mixed faith marriage - he a Gentile and she a Jew — lived in constant anxiety. Whenever there was a knock at the door, the Aunt immediately went into hiding.
Thankfully, there were those, such as my maternal Grandparents who were more fortunate. As they were lucky enough to be financially secure, they survived the Holocaust by escaping to Memphis, Tennessee, America.
Among others to survive, were my Father’s sister’s family, who fled first to neutral Portugal, then eventually found their way to Palestine.
Equally fortunate, were my parents. In common with other family members and friends, they even managed to bury a few of their valuables — hiding them in gardens and fields, some even swallowing their rings - before finally fleeing Austria.
On October 5th 1938, Hitler and his troops walked over the border into his latest conquest, occupying the once Czech Sudetenland; and six months later on March 15th 1939, Hitler’s tanks entered Prague, then immediately annexed Bohemia and Moravia. As the Summer advanced, it became plain that the Nazi’s also had ambitions to subdue Poland. And at the same time as they were relentlessly planning this further onslaught through Europe, my parents were planning their own personal flight.
At last, reaching the safety of the Netherlands, they were just in time to board the final train - bound for Britain — ahead of the Dutch mobilisation on August 28th 1939.
And so this was the story, of how my parents came to arrive in England as destitute Jewish refugees, within a week of the outbreak of the 2nd World War.
Thus, their comfortable middle class lifestyle - which they had led in Vienna for so long - abruptly, came to an end.

It must have been a harrowing time for my parents to find themselves, homeless and stateless, made even worse by their immediate separation.
My Father was classed as an “enemy alien” and was interned in a camp on the Isle of Man. These camps were mainly full of respectable Jewish refugees, such as tradesmen, like patisseries and tailors, businessmen and several musicians. In due course, some of these musicians went on to form the famous “Amadeus String Quartet”. On the whole, these internees posed no threat to the British population, but then, understandably, some believed that there might have been “5th Columnists” (sympathisers with the enemy) amongst them. So in 1940, “clause18b” was invoked. All “enemy aliens” were put into one of three categories - A= High Risk, B= Medium Risk and C=Low Risk. It seemed my Father must have been deemed as a low risk alien, as six months later he was released and joined my Mother in the small flat, which she had been allocated in Bayswater, soon after their arrival in London.
Later, they were sent to “Seymour House” on the Albion Estate, in the Wandsworth Road. Originally designed as private apartments, the blocks were by then managed by the Borough Council. Each flat was built on two levels with a staircase leading to two bedrooms above. Downstairs there was a modern kitchen, which even included a fridge and a cosy sitting room with an open fireplace. Basic furniture was kindly provided by the Red Cross. The flat was fronted by a balcony overlooking “Gilbert Scott’s” famous Battersea Power Station and there was even a greenhouse in the grounds, which in pre-war days supplied plants for their Spring and Summer gardens. In fact one of my earliest post-war memories were of these colourful flowerbeds, which were neatly planted out around the estate. And I have been told that the Estate is still there today —continuing to provide accommodation for the present day refugees who have sought refuge in the country.
Another memory I have of this time, were of our neighbours. Almost all of them were Londoners, born and bred, and generally accepted and welcomed us, but back then as now, others were not so hospitable and viewed us with some suspicion. Nevertheless, my parents did their best to adapt to their new way of life and soon began their urgent search for work. It was not long before they both found routine jobs in local factories. My Father worked in a food manufacturer, which at one time, I believe, made ice cream, whilst my Mother was employed making switches for plugs.
There, she worked until I was born in Paddington Hospital in May 1942. As she was still classed as an impoverished refugee, they generously provided her with a layette and the pre- “N.H.S” (National Health Service) fee, which was then about five guineas for a confinement was waived.
When my brother Ronnie arrived eighteen months later, at home, it was again decided to forgo the appropriate fee and out of dire necessity, the midwife kindly brought further baby clothes and a chair from her own home so she could sit down by the bedside!
Within a few weeks of our births, Mother resumed her job, working long shifts in the factory. So Ronnie and I were taken to a day nursery - one of several - provided by the state for wartime working women.

Like so many millions we had to exist solely on our basic rations - no opportunity for “black-market”- with the exception of the occasional “Care Parcels” sent by my Grandparents from their American home. And these parcels soon became the highlight of our lives!

My family hoped that when the war was finally over, they would be able to return to Austria to have their longed-for reunions. Sadly this was not to be. But my Grandmother and Mother were eventually reunited with some of their buried treasures, which thankfully the Nazis had not discovered. These were later unearthed and brought back to the London flat, which by then we had begun to call our home.

Looking back, I realise that as a child of refugee parents I saw the war through their eyes and when they were fearful, I was fearful too. That same fear lives on with my Mother still. The same intolerances continue to exist, and she believes that one day it could all happen again. When we look at the world today — sixty years on — sometimes, I feel we have learnt very little.

1) THE SUMMARY OF LIZ’S STORY — In the Spring of 1938,

faced with the imminent threat of the Nazi occupation of

Austria — the “Austrian Auschluss” - in which several of

her family perished, she recounts her parent’s escape

from Vienna, arriving in London as destitute, Jewish

refugees. How, on their arrival, her Father was interned

for six months on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien, her

parent’s subsequent work in London factories, her own

birth in Paddington Hospital in 1942 and her early

memories of her first home — a flat overlooking Battersea

Power Station…

LIZ’S STORY — To be honest, I really do not remember exactly, when I first found out about my family’s tragic past. But thinking back now, it must have been from quite an early age, when I learnt all about it.
I had been told that their nightmare began in Vienna in the early Spring of 1938. For it was then, that a powerful enemy, “The Nazis”, led by a man called Adolf Hitler, had invaded their country, irrevocably changing their lives for ever...
Both my parents were born into the Jewish faith — my Father Hans, in November 1913, and my Mother Gutta, in December 1916. They grew up, between the wars, in the beautiful city of Vienna, Austria, where for many years most of their family had lived — leading happy and useful lives.
As I understand, their first introduction took place by my paternal Grandparents at their club. And although the preparations for their subsequent wedding were sadly overshadowed by the presence of the Nazi Reich, my parents were eventually married at a Viennese Synagogue on Sunday, 26th June, 1938.
As it happened, they could not have chosen a more tumultuous time to embark on their married lives. For just three months previously, on March 12th, they had witnessed the momentous day of the “Austrian Auschluss”, when Germany had occupied their country.
Just two days later, amid cheering crowds and pealing bells, Herr Hitler drove into Vienna. Standing upright in his open car - the procession headed by tanks and followed by guns - arrived at the “Hotel Imperial”. Here, he appeared on the balcony to take the “Fascist Salute”, whilst both Austrian and German troops marched by.
Needless to say, the enthusiasm for the arrival of the German Dictator — who since becoming Chancellor in 1933 had been rapidly oppressing the German Jews — was not shared by the Jewish population of Austria. As by then, they clearly knew what was in store for them.
Their fears were confirmed when within a week, on March 18th, a “Pogram”, called by the Nazi newspapers, as “The Great Spring Cleaning”, was carried out. Immediately, the Jewish community were excluded from their professions and shops were forced to put up placards saying, “Jewish Concerns”. Even the theatres suffered the same fate, which meant that the voices of artists such as the famous tenor Richard Tauber were silenced.
It was from then, that my family realised that their safety could not be guaranteed, if they remained in their native city and sought a means of escape. But alas, for some, that escape never came. Significantly, my paternal Grandparents were shot and tragically did not survive. In later years, my Father reflected that this was more merciful than had they have been interned in a concentration camp. But of course their untimely deaths meant, that my brother and I were sadly denied the pleasure of knowing them,
Tragedy also occurred amongst my maternal family. My Grandmother had two sisters whom she dearly loved, but alas, they both perished too. One developed Tuberculosis and died when she was being transported on a dreadful “Death Train”, whilst the other — to avoid the fate of the gas chamber — committed suicide by jumping out of a window.
Then, there was an Aunt who hung herself and an Uncle and Aunt, who were in a mixed faith marriage - he a Gentile and she a Jew — lived in constant anxiety. Whenever there was a knock at the door, the Aunt immediately went into hiding.
Thankfully, there were those, such as my maternal Grandparents who were more fortunate. As they were lucky enough to be financially secure, they survived the Holocaust by escaping to Memphis, Tennessee, America.
Among others to survive, were my Father’s sister’s family, who fled first to neutral Portugal, then eventually found their way to Palestine.
Equally fortunate, were my parents. In common with other family members and friends, they even managed to bury a few of their valuables — hiding them in gardens and fields, some even swallowing their rings - before finally fleeing Austria.
Between April and June 1940, the Nazis over-ran six Western European countries — Denmark, Norway, Luxembourg, Holland, Belgium and France. And at the same time as their tanks were sweeping relentlessly through them, my parents were making their own parallel flight.
At last, reaching the safety of the Netherlands, they were just in time to board the final train - bound for Britain — ahead of the Dutch occupation on May10th 1940.
And so this was the story, of how my parents came to arrive in England as destitute Jewish refugees, during the early months of the 2nd World War.
Thus, their comfortable middle class lifestyle - which they had led in Vienna for so long - abruptly, came to an end.

It must have been a harrowing time for my parents to find themselves, homeless and stateless, made even worse by their immediate separation.
My Father was classed as an “enemy alien” and was interned in a camp on the Isle of Man. These camps were mainly full of respectable Jewish refugees, such as tradesmen, like patisseries and tailors, businessmen and several musicians. In due course, some of these musicians went on to form the famous “Amadeus String Quartet”. On the whole, these internees posed no threat to the British population, but then, understandably, some believed that there may have been “5th Columnists” (sympathisers with the enemy) amongst them. So in 1940, “clause18b” was invoked. All “enemy aliens” were put into one of three categories - A= High Risk, B= Medium Risk and C=Low Risk. It seemed my Father must have been deemed as a low risk alien, as six months later he was released and joined my Mother in the small flat which she had been allocated in Bayswater, soon after their arrival in London.
Later, they were sent to “Seymour House” on the Albion Estate, in the Wandsworth Road. Originally designed as private apartments, the blocks were by then managed by the Borough Council. Each flat was built on two levels with a staircase leading to two bedrooms above. Downstairs there was a modern kitchen, which even included a fridge and a cosy sitting room with an open fireplace. Basic furniture was kindly provided by the Red Cross. The flat was fronted by a balcony overlooking “Gilbert Scott’s” famous Battersea Power Station and there was even a greenhouse in the grounds, which in pre-war days supplied plants for their Spring and Summer gardens. In fact one of my earliest post-war memories were of these colourful flowerbeds, which were neatly planted out around the estate. And I have been told that the Estate is still there today —continuing to provide accommodation for the present day refugees who have sought refuge in the country.
Another memory I have of this time, were of our neighbours. Almost all of them were Londoners, born and bred, and generally accepted and welcomed us, but back then as now, others were not so hospitable and viewed us with some suspicion. Nevertheless, my parents did their best to adapt to their new way of life and soon began their urgent search for work. It was not long before they both found routine jobs in local factories. My Father worked in a food manufacturers which at one time, I believe, made ice cream, whilst my Mother was employed making switches for plugs.
There, she worked until I was born in Paddington Hospital in May 1942. As she was still classed as an impoverished refugee, they generously provided her with a layette and the pre- “N.H.S” (National Health Service) fee which was then about five guineas for a confinement was waived.
When my brother Ronnie arrived eighteen months later, at home, it was again decided to forgo the appropriate fee and out of dire necessity, the midwife kindly brought further baby clothes and a chair from her own home so she could sit down by the bedside!
Within a few weeks of our births, Mother resumed her job, working long shifts in the factory. So Ronnie and I were taken to a day nursery - one of several - provided by the state for wartime working women.

Like so many millions we had to exist solely on our basic rations - no opportunity for “black-market”- with the exception of the occasional “Care Parcels” sent by my Grandparents from their American home. And these parcels soon became the highlight of our lives!

My family hoped that when the war was finally over, they would be able to return to Austria to have their longed-for reunions. Sadly this was not to be. But my Grandmother and Mother were eventually reunited with some of their buried treasures, which thankfully the Nazis had not discovered. These were later unearthed and brought back to the London flat, which by then we had begun to call our home.

Looking back, I realise that as a child of refugee parents I saw the war through their eyes and when they were fearful, I was fearful too. That same fear lives on with my Mother still. The same intolerances continue to exist, and she believes that one day it could all happen again. When we look at the world today — some sixty years on — sometimes, I feel we have learnt very little.