蜜芽传媒

Air Raid in Birmingham. This is a story my father told me.

My Dad鈥檚 name was Jim Clarke. He was a Scot, having been born in Montrose.

Dad had joined the Royal Air Force in 1938. He had been walking down the Hilltown in Dundee on his way to work one morning. Mr Churchill鈥檚 pleadings that war was coming had had a profound effect on Dad and had caused him much thought. On this day quite on impulse he walked into an RAF recruiting office and joined up.

He had recently completed an apprenticeship in engineering so the RAF snapped him up. They even gave him a special number: 644710 Clarke, James. Apparently the 644 prefix to the service number was special denoting a person with unique qualifications.

Anyway, he had several postings following his basic training, ending up at Royal Air Force Station Little Rissington near Stow-on-the-Wold in the Cotswolds. Mum was also working at this station as a wages clerk and they met at a station dance.

During August of 1940 they became engaged. Dad had a spot of leave due him so he decided to go to his home city of Dundee to tell his parents of his engagement.

A week later he was making his return journey. Rail travel could be tedious in those days and he had to change trains at Leeds and Birmingham Snow Hill.

Leeds was uneventful apart from a 14 hour wait for a connection. At Snow Hill he arrived in the late afternoon and while he and a buddy he had travelled back from Dundee when the air raid sirens started. Station announcers directed passengers down to a Post Office underground railway that ran under Snow Hill station. There were hundreds of people on the platform and as everyone was making their way to the underground and lady pushed through the crowd and without a word placed a baby girl into Dad鈥檚 arms and then she was gone. Astounded all Dad could do was gaze around in astonishment! Eventually they got downstairs and sat alongside the railway track. Every now and then an unmanned train 鈥� a miniature of the London Underground 鈥� would pass by. Air raids did not stop the mail!

Then began the crump of bombs overhead. Occasionally a drizzle of dust motes from the ceiling indicated a stick of bombs falling nearby. The baby was getting fidgety and a woman suggested to Dad that perhaps it needed a clean nappy. All he had was his kitbag and rifle but typical of the British public within minutes appeared not only a clean nappy but also a baby鈥檚 bottle filled with milk!

Thus passed a very traumatic evening. It was not long before the underground train stopped carrying mail and began carrying casualties. One such memorable casualty Dad recalled was a red-bearded Scotsman complete with kilt singing at the top of his voice and both his legs had been blown off!

Many, many casualty trains rumbled by that evening as the hours passed. On and on went the raid. The continuous rumble and crump of bombs falling continued unabated for hours and hours. Everyone in the tunnel tried to get what sleep they could. The baby was restless but very good considering the circumstances.

After nearly 13 hours station staff announced the all-clear was sounding. As they made their weary way up to the platform they could hear the steady wail of the sirens and there were men and women openly weeping at that wonderful sound.

Once on the platform Dad was wondering what to do with the baby when out of the crowd the same young woman appeared, snatched the baby off Dad and made off into the crowd with not so much as a by-your-leave or a thank you.

So there they were, dog-tired. They learned that train services had been suspended and there were no buses at that time of night so they started walking. Only 60 miles to go, they hoped they could hitch a lift.

They had reached the outskirts of Birmingham hardly knowing how to put one foot in front of another when they heard a voice call out. A lady was beckoning them to her house.

鈥淥h, were you two in that raid?鈥� said the lady. 鈥淚 have a spare bedroom. Come in and get some rest.鈥�
The pair gratefully accepted and after a warming cup of tea they lay in the bed and went out like lights.

Dad awoke suddenly. He could not get his bearings; there was noise everywhere and it was dark but he could not move. He called out to his mate but there was no reply. Struggling to move he realised he was underneath the bed which had turned over. It was a heavy bed and it took some time for him to get from under it. The house was in ruins and further inspection revealed his mate was badly injured. Of the lady there was no sign. There must have been another raid because the house next door appeared to have had a direct hit. It was not long before the Civil Defence rescue teams arrived and took Dad鈥檚 mate off to hospital. Revived by the few hours sleep he had managed to get Dad set out once more for Gloucestershire. He was now nearly 48 hours late and he was contemplating a long spell of 鈥渏ankers鈥� for being absent without leave.

A kindly lorry driver picked Dad up a few miles outside Birmingham and took him to Stow-on-the-Wold. He then had a five mile walk to Little Rissington Aerodrome.

As he approached the main gate at RAF Little Rissington Dad could see a RAF Police Sergeant standing by the guardhouse. Wilting under the fierce gaze of the sergeant, Dad timidly handed over his pass. Nodding knowingly the sergeant checked his clipboard then looked at Dad.

鈥淏irmingham?鈥� said the sergeant.

鈥淎ye, sergeant,鈥� said Dad wearily.

鈥淵ou look all in, son,鈥� said the sergeant kindly. 鈥淐orporal, take this airman to his billet and make sure he is not disturbed for 12 hours.

So ended an adventure for my Dad. That night many poor souls in Birmingham has lost their lives and their homes in that terrible raid.

But as is the way with the British, they got up, shook themselves down and got on with life.

Signed Anthony J. Clarke

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