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Born in 1937, I was brought up in the small Lancashire village of Lostock Hall - which boasted three cotton mills, several churches, and railway engine sheds. The village was not far from Leyland, home of the famous motor works, which during the war was engaged in the construction of tanks.
Every Sunday afternoon, mum, dad and I used to walk from our home to the home of my mother's parents, a distance of about one mile. The routine and the timing never changed. That is, except for one Sunday afternoon in October 1940. On the way to Grandma and Granddad Wilson's house, we called in to visit my paternal grandparents. We were in and out in less than ten minutes. It was to prove an important diversion.
We left there, and continued with our usual Sunday stroll. As we turned the corner leading to the street where my mother's parents lived, my mother suddenly looked up and said, 'I don't like the sound of that aeroplane. It's making a whistling noise'. I remember as though it were yesterday, my father turning us round to walk back about ten yards, and then making us lie down on the pavement outside the Methodist Sunday School building. I even remember that he made me lie on my stomach, even though I wanted to look upwards!
Minutes later, we got up and walked further down the street. My mother and I sat on the doorstep of a corner confectioner's shop, whilst my father walked away from us. Some time later, he returned, and over sixty years later I still remember his words as he looked down at my mother and me - 'They've all gone', he said. The little row of houses, Princess Street, where my grandparents lived had suffered a direct hit by an enemy bomb. The plane was presumed to be returning from a raid on Leyland Motor Works, and was disposing of unused bombs.
In that peaceful Lancashire village, apparently far removed from the war, my grandparents and my uncle were killed; another uncle and an aunt suffered major injuries. There were other deaths in that short street. My mother and father and I had been less than a hundred yards away when the bomb fell. Had we not stopped off for a few minutes on the way ........ My mother remained convinced that I was spared that day in order to be involved in Christian service at some time in my life.
Fifty years later, on Remembrance Sunday, a memorial plaque was unveiled in memory of those who had died. As an officer of The Salvation Army, I was invited by the mayor to offer a prayer of dedication, and afterwards to lay a wreath at the local war memorial.
Following 'the bombing', as it was always known, we moved away from Lostock Hall and its memories, and went to live in Fleetwood, my mother's home town.

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