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1943 — A COUNTRY BLITZ

This short account was among short stories left by my mother on her death. I can vouch for its complete accuracy: I was the five-year old son referred to, and I remember the incident very clearly:-

Usually we slept under Morrison Shelters which crowded our living rooms like oversized iron dining tables, but when canisters of flares were dropped, lighting up our blacked-out town like a target, we ran to the earth-covered shelter on the corner.
One night as usual my son of five lay on his bed in a siren suit and shoes, and I too lay fully dressed ready for the siren. It came, the empty streets were floodlit. I grabbed my son, rushed out of the house, and reached the shelter to find I’d arrived before the Warden, and the door was locked. About a dozen or so people were there, milling about in bewilderment, unable to get into the shelter, and not sure what to do for the best.
I saw and heard the enemy planes roaring towards us, so I pushed my son down into the long grass behind the shelter and flung myself on top of him just as the first bomb rocked the ground.
I could feel him struggling fiercely under me, but I dared not expose him to the flying debris, and I pinned him down just as fiercely, until the roar of aircraft and explosions passed over us. Then he struggled out, bawling louder than the planes - his face covered in white blisters. I’d held him face down in a bed of nettles…
By now the shelter was unlocked. Surrounded by neighbours, I sat him on the top bunk where he howled, “I don’t care about your rotten bombs!!�
And evidently nor did our neighbours, for though the crashes continued, the shelter emptied. They were all out collecting dock leaves to soothe his outraged face!

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