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This story has been submitted to the People's War site by Peter Stutchbury. It was written by Barbara Ware and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

BORN TO BE DIFFERENT, BUT THE WAR LENT A HELPING HAND.

My story is not of world shattering importance or of heroism, just that I was born at the right time, although it did not seem so then.

I was the first born child and eagerly awaited by my parents in that summer of 1938. It must have been an awful shock to them on being told that I was not a perfect baby, but had congenital deformities of both the hands and feet. It was difficult for them in an age when those of us born with any abnormality, especially those so noticeable, were not readily acceptable. Within a few months of my birth medical opinion was sought. I was put on the medical register and booked to go into an orthopedic institution at Swanley.

The first two and a half years of my life were much as any other baby. However, I always knew I was different. I spent much of my time crying and was given the nick-name of `Boodle' because according to accounts I was always booing. By the age of two and a half I was considered old enough to be sent from home to the `Queen Alexandra Hospital for Crippled Children' at Swanley. This was the orthopedic wing and an annex of St Bartholomew Hospital, London. With the onset of the Second World War hospital plans changed. This section of St Barts was near to the junction of Swanley Railway Station and in the direct line of fire of London. In 1940 the whole hospital wing was evacuated to Stockwood House, Luton in Bedfordshire. About Christmas time 1941 my time came to be admitted to hospital and I was sent from my home in Kent direct to Luton.

Stockwood House was an 18th century mansion set in extensive grounds. I still remember the open parkland, lawns and garden. The house had no mains drainage or sewers connected, but catered for about seventy five people, staff and patients included. Memories are vague of my stay there. Visiting was strict, just two hours once a month on a Sunday from 2 o'clock until 4 o'clock. All toys were shared and any sweets were given out equally to all children. In order to see me at all required that my parents left our home in Kent at six thirty in the morning and they arrived home half past ten in the evening. My stay there lasted two and a half years and when I left my medical records read, `no improvement'. I was five years old and sent home because there were no amenities for education.

I arrived home to Kent in the late autumn of 1943. My own personal nightmares, left by being institutionalized and segregated from my family, gave way to the unknown terror of War. The area of east Kent where I lived was surrounded with War images; aircraft, air-raid sirens, search-lights, the blackout, tank traps and hedgerows strewn with barbed wire.

My home coming was like the best Christmas that can be imagined; neighbors came with toys and best wishes, but the best present of all was my new found freedom and a wonderful large garden to play in. My happiness, however, was short lived. My father, relentless in his bidding to give me all the medical attention available at that time made inquiries about the new techniques being developed in plastic surgery. Within a few weeks of my home coming dad and I were heading for London and Harley Street. We had an appointment with Archibald McIndoe, head surgeon for the now famous Queen Victoria Hospital, East Grinstead. The Great man, with his entourage, made it all sound so easy. It seemed I was only in his presence for a short time, but I still remember the magic words he uttered, ` I think we can do something for her'. Dad was so pleased, a place was booked for me to go to the Queen Victoria as soon as a bed was available.

Three months after the war ended Dad and I want by taxi to East Grinstead. The memory of it stays with me to this day. Dad was elated and chatted to me excitedly as we walked the drives' length. He told me that the asp sparkling golden in the autumn sun was the symbol of healing and hope welled in me. As we walked the drive a picture opened up before us that I had never seen; we passed men swathed in bandages, some so covered that there was little of them to see. These men were pushing, in wheelchairs, those who were so injured they could not walk unaided. It was a humbling sight, so much so that we fell silent, the only sound, our feet crunching on the gravel. So this is the War, `I thought' as we walked on, heads now bowed. Dad could hardly mumble a greeting as we passed.

It took the rest of my childhood to build the hands that I was made with into workable ones. I owe a great debt to the original guinea pigs. (I was one of them too) and the inspiring work of Archibald McIndoe, who as we know later received a Knighthood for his work.

I dedicate my story to those men and their suffering and Sir Archibald McIndoe and his team for his inspirational gift of healing that has made life worth while for me.

Barbara Ware (Stutchbury)
BIBLIOGRAPHY

Hospitals in Luton and Dunstable an Illustrated History, by Margaret R Currie 1982

Medical records from the `specialist section', Queen Victoria Hospital, East Grinstead.

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