ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

The Second World War and living in Shettleston, in Glasgow's East End, were synonymous to me. I was six years of age when it started and coming on twelve when it finished. None of my recollections include any of the ravages associated with war. No death, no great destruction, no fires nor anything like that. Oh I remember the story of someone in Sandyhills who walked all the way home from work during an Air Raid. He managed the journey unscathed only to be killed at the door of his Anderson Shelter, in his own garden, by a piece of shrapnel. I also remember seeing some houses damaged by bombing, again in Sandyhills, but it just looked like a dolls house with the front opened.

My experiences of War were all to do with the changes that it brought with it. Barrage balloons, baffle walls, rafters, ration books, queues, blackouts and so on. Each new happening brought some excitement with it; something new to marvel at for a time and which gradually dwindled into insignificance; accepted as commonplace; nine day wonders most of them. Some, of course, had a more lasting effect but still managed to blend into everyday existence which, in our part in the War, usually meant uselessness. Nothing ever seemed to happen to justify all the upheaval!

The chronological order in which things happened has blurred with the passing of time and the memories are disjointed. However, the sequence of events is unimportant; it has no great bearing on the memories; one did not depend on the other. The War and Shettleston had only one thing in common as far as I was concerned and that was me! I suppose it gives me licence to recall events as they spring to mind and that is fine with me. Memory always reminds me of a little box of cards; as soon as the subject is triggered a series of cards pop up with various items associated with whatever provided the trigger. Pass a favoured spot, hear a certain word, phrase or song, whatever - and memories flood back.

Most of the innovations brought about by the War lasted for the duration of it but there were events which happened, probably only once, that had more of a ring of war about them. For instance, I recall two Air Raids - there were probably more but only these two stuck - and a few other sights which have stayed with me as being "of the War".

More often than not at that time I lived with my Granny Anderson at 1090 Shettleston Road. I was always a heavy sleeper and the first instance was recounted to me rather than remembered. I am told that when the siren sounded I was awakened and told to dress quickly. Apparently I had terrible trouble complying because of the difficulty I had getting my feet into my jumper! The problems encountered pulling my trousers over my head rendered me helpless and I usually had to be carried half dressed, and probably still asleep, down to the cellar of the nearby Trinity Methodist Church.

I liked that place - it was dry and warm and soon I would be completely restored to slumber land unaware of what had transpired. Not for long on one particular occasion because a few stray bombs, intended no doubt for Clydebank or jettisoned by the German crew, landed nearby in Sandyhills. I bounced out of by bed and landed on the floor of the cellar. From that moment, and for the rest of that night, I was wide awake. I don't think I ever forgave Hitler for the fright or the loss of sleep.

The other raid I remember more for the spectacle than of any feeling of fear. I had pushed my way between some adults who were standing at the rear entrance to our close, the common entrance to all the houses in the building. Many of the residents gathered here for safety during Air Raids because the close was supported by wooden rafters which were intended to keep the entrance-way clear should the building be bombed. The blast-blind, which covered the entrance, had been rolled up and some of the adults were watching the progress of the War. Over the top of the brick baffle wall, built to protect the building access from possible bomb blast damage, or shrapnel fragments, I saw a wondrous sight in the bright moonlight. Searchlights criss-crossed the sky, drawing great arcs in the heavens as they sought enemy intruders which were raining death from the skies.

As a sequel to those two events, which must have occurred on consecutive nights, we were treated to the rare sight of a German fighter plane at close quarters; in the school playground to be precise. We were lined up and marched out of our classroom and into the playground, passing other chattering pupils going in the opposite direction. There was an air of great excitement among them and I wondered what they were so enthusiastic about. Into the open and there on the back of a lorry or long trailer of some sort stood a Messerschmitt 109, or what was left of one. It now had no wings or cockpit cover and there were holes all over the place. We were allowed to clamber onto the platform and examine the entire object. All that the boys were interested in was to see if there was any blood in the cockpit!

I remember the first time I saw American servicemen. A troop train on its way from Glasgow to Airdrie stopped for a short while on the bridge over Duror Street in Greenfield, Shettleston and the Yanks threw chocolate and chewing gum to some kids passing under the bridge. Mysteriously hordes of people of all ages suddenly appeared at the bridge and a great chorus of: "Any gum chum?" rang out. It was all over in a fairly short time but it left a lasting impression. For weeks after there was always a throng of kids hanging around that bridge waiting for the event to happen again. I still think about it each time I pass under that bridge.

The only other episode which rung of War was wandering up and down Wellshot Road hunting for shrapnel. I had met my Uncle David, who was an Air Raid Warden, and he showed us where he had been standing during one particular raid, when he heard a whistling sound and then a thump. When he turned round there was a large, jagged piece of metal lodged in a wooden telegraph pole not ten feet away. When he showed us the spot there was no longer any shrapnel there, it was in his pocket as a souvenir. We went searching all around looking for pieces of bomb. We found none!

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.