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In December 1940 my husband, Sid, who was on leave from the army, and I had been visiting his mother in London. We boarded a train at Euston station in the early evening to travel to Manchester; soon after we were plunged into darkness as an air-raid siren had sounded somewhere along the line.

The whole journey took about 11 hours; we were in total darkness barely able to see each other, no-one was allowed to light a cigarette. Throughout the night we heard anti-aircraft fire and the sound of bombs dropping. Naturally we didn’t get a wink of sleep and were thoroughly exhausted when we arrived at London Road Station.

We weren’t allowed to leave the train until the all clear had sounded. As we walked down Market Street we were shocked to see the devastation and fires. Firemen were still fighting the fires despite being exhausted; some of them were literally asleep sitting on boxes with the hoses still in their hands.

We dragged ourselves along with our suitcases, passing what was once Marks and Spencers and the flower shop of Dingley’s in Corporation Street. Naturally there wasn’t any transport so we walked in a sort of daze through all the bombed streets and rubble to where I lived opposite Albert Park, Hr. Broughton, taking several hours.

It’s now 63 years later, Sid and I are 85 years old, have lived in Australia since 1976 but still remember it as if it was yesterday.

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