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The first year of World War 2

On 3rd September 1939 I was 6 weeks short of my 4th birthday. My first memory relating to the 2nd World War occurred in the preceding August. A lorry came down Clever Road, London E6 unloading sheets of galvanized iron outside each house. My Father and my Brother John took the sheets outside our house (number 49) and carried them through to our back yard. Having already dug a pit, they constructed an Anderson Air Raid Shelter.

My next memory was of events several days later. I was sitting next to the window, on the left hand side of a bus looking out at the pavement. Strangely, there were no members of my family with me. On the pavement were groups of small children and their parents all waiting for buses. I have no recollection of the journey. Our destination was a London County Council ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ at Shenfield, Brentwood, Essex.

The ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ consisted of a series of modern purpose-built dormitory blocks, These consisted of rooms holding about 20 beds. I gained the impression that the place had been constructed as an orphanage. Soon after we arrived our clothes were exchanged for a short cotton smock and matching shorts. These were laundered at weekly intervals. The only item of individual clothing retained was an overcoat.

Life seemed to consist of a dull routine. I remember being taken for walks in the quite large grounds of the ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½. The adult staff told us what to do and as far as I recollect we all did as we were told. I cannot recall any crying or displays of temper by the children. The Staff did not have the time to treat us as individuals. Years later, when we experienced the Buzz Bomb Air Raids, it was sufficient for someone to shake me by the shoulder, when I was fast asleep, for me to get out of bed, put on my slippers and overcoat, stand by my bed and wait to be lead to the Air Raid Shelter. I do not have any memory of Staff as separate human beings. I would emphasise that we were not harshly treated. There was no smacking or bullying.

The highlights of my existence were visits by my family. Perhaps I should explain about my family. It consisted of Mother, Father, sister Emily 16 years, brother John 14 years, sister Jean 10 years, brother Maurice 7 years. I had another brother Frank, but he had married at Easter 1939 and had his own house at Hanworth, Middlesex. In any case as a Territorial he had been called to the Colours in August 1939 and was in the Royal Artillery and part of the 8th Army in North Africa.

As Jean and Maurice had been evacuated to Somerset I did not see them for over a year. So it was Mother and Father and sometimes Em and John who came down individually on visits. As I said, these were the highlights of my existence. However, the visits were also the cause of much distress. As a 4 year old I was incapable of understanding why I was separated from my loving family and left with strangers. Each time I was visited I wanted to go home back to London.

London September/October 1940

Ironically I returned to London in September 1940 just prior to my 5th Birthday. It was at this moment that Hitler unleashed the Luftwaffe on England. London and its Docks was a prime target. For a week I lived in our Air Raid Shelter. At night, Mum, Dad, John, Em and myself slept there. During the day I remained there whilst the other members of the family carried on with their normal daytime occupations. One morning after a particularly bad night there was great excitement when a piece of aircraft was found on next door’s dugout. The adults announced that it was part of the bomb rack from an enemy bomber. After a week of raids with bombs falling every night in the district, my Mother had had enough of the red tape delaying my joining Jean and Maurice in Somerset. It was decided that I would be safer at Frank’s house at Hanworth. Frank’s brother-in-law, a man with a name of Dutch origin, but always called Van, was given the task of getting me there.

The journey was started at night on foot. I remember holding on to Van’s hand and running down the road. At times he carried me under his arm. The raids were in full flow. At times we sheltered in shop doorways, air raid shelters and anywhere for protection. At one point we were taken into a house where I was put into a Morrison shelter (a steel table with steel wire sides) and slept for a while. Then it was up and away, heading right into the centre of London in order to escape out to the West. I don’t recall much of how our journey was completed but recall that it was a sunny Sunday morning when we arrived in Hanworth. It was a mercy that I was too young to realise the dangers involved.

Evacuation to Somerset

I spent a few days at Hanworth and was then taken to Somerset. Here I went to live with the Burstons, Uncle Bert, Auntie Ede and their 4year old daughter Barbara. This was at Langley Cross, just outside Wiveliscombe. My sister Jean lived close by and in any case she joined me at the Burstons after a week or so. It took a bit longer for Maurice to join us but eventually the 3 of us were together.

Life with the Burstons was much happier for me. There was so much that was new and exciting. Farming in that part of Somerset had not changed much since the beginning of the 20th century. I do not recall ever seeing a tractor. It was all huge horses and close by we used to see the local blacksmith shoeing them. Across the blacksmith’s yard was the carpenter. I remember seeing a 4 wheeled wagon made in its entirety, with all the metalwork forged by the blacksmith. Today such a wagon would find pride of place in a museum. There was hay making and harvesting the cornfields. The whole community took part in all these events. The countryside was our playground, but we knew how to respect the crops and the hedges. If we stepped outside the accepted norms then we could expect any adult to correct us. You did not break through hedges, you did not leave field gates open, nor did you trample on crops. There were no combine harvesters in our part of the world. The corn was cut by a binder/reaper and then there was the excitement of watching the great big traction engine driving the threshing machine.
Our education was not neglected. The LCC evacuated teachers as well as us children. As far as I recall the local children and the evacuees were taught together. I enjoyed every aspect of school life except one. School meals were disgusting. I could not be sure whether or not our leftovers became pig swill or if the pig swill became school meals. In wartime nobody could afford to be fussy about the quality of their food and at family meal times woe betide anyone leaving food on their plate. But those school meals were truly revolting. To this day I cannot eat turnips or swedes.

Whilst we were at some distance from the war there were always events connected with the war that involved the whole community. There was a Wings for Victory Parade. The little town of Wiveliscombe put enough money into War Savings to buy a Spitfire and a parade was held to celebrate. The salute was taken by a RAF Wing Commander who was the son of one of the important local families. Then we were always being urged to collect scrap metal. I clearly recall the intensive scouring of the hedgerows and ditches to find pieces of old farm equipment. In return for our collections we were given little bakelite badges. Great excitement was caused by the crashing of one our bombers into the hillside at Maundown. It exploded on impact but I think the aircrew had parachuted to safety. The wreckage was scattered over 3 or 4 fields and after the official recovery of the scrap materials, there was an intensive search by the children for every minute particle of that airplane to add to our collection of souvenirs.

Return to family life

At some point during the war my parents decided to move from London to Hanworth. They managed to find a house close by Frank’s house. In 1943 there had not been much bombing for a long while and in any case Hanworth was a long way from London. So my parents decided that we should come home. It was not that the War had passed by Hanworth entirely. The house we lived in was one of 6 that remained after the other 18 were demolished by a landmine. The house next door was occupied by a woman with 2 sons who had her little girl killed when her house was bombed. However we soon re-established family life and settled into a routine. It was some time later that we had to take to the air raid shelter again when Hitler started up with his rockets and flying bombs. The rockets were accepted as one of the things you had to put up with. The flying bombs or doodlebugs were a much more unpleasant thing to cope with. They had an absolutely unmistakable engine noise. Whenever you heard its guttural roar you listened intently and hoped that it would fade into the distance. If the engine suddenly cut-out you held your breath until you heard the explosion. There was no way of knowing if it was going to fall on you.

Still our family did have one laugh about a doodlebug. One lunchtime I was in our backyard and I caught sight of what looked like a silver pencil streaking across the sky in the general direction of London. As I called out to Maurice he came hurrying out the back door but was too late to see the rocket. However we suddenly heard the roar of the engine of a doodlebug. We dropped to the ground as the engine stopped. There was an almighty bang that shook the house. It had fallen in Crane Park about a mile away. No sooner had we picked ourselves up than our Mother appeared looking very belligerent. Unbeknown to me, Mother had just sent Maurice out the house with a flea in his ear for some minor transgression. When the house shook with the explosion she thought it was the result of his having slammed the back door. Now our Mother would not tolerate shows of bad temper by any of her children when she had corrected one of them. We had to explain very hurriedly about the doodlebug in order that Maurice could avoid getting a clout.

Rationing

Rationing and the queuing that it entailed was one of the most depressing aspects of every day life. My Mother worked miracles in feeding our family. We all had to take our part. Whilst meat was severely rationed, things like rabbits, offal and the such were not. The butcher was entitled to sell these articles in whatever way he chose. If you were not quick off the mark he would be sold out before you got there. At the slightest rumour that your butcher was receiving such items, then one or other of us was sent to take their place in the queue so that we got our share.

Then we also kept chickens. These were fed on kitchen scraps, potatoes and a type of meal. To obtain this meal we had to surrender our egg ration. It also meant going out in the backyard in the dark before school to prepare their food. It was also the first job to be done when getting home from school, which in the winter was also in the dark. But it meant that we had eggs and on high days and holidays we ate chicken. Today’s supermarket shopper cannot possibly conceive with what high esteem the meat of a chicken was held in wartime Britain.

Whilst vegetables were not rationed the population at large were urged to grow as much as possible. Thus a man could be working the standard 5 ½ day week, carrying out Air Raid Warden or ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½ Guard duties several evenings/nights per week and was still expected to grow vegetables. Naturally we children were required to help in the garden.

The rationing of confectionery was what touched children the most. At one point in the war it was reduced to 3 ounces a week. This meant 2 ounces one week and 4 ounces the next. Milk chocolate was reserved for infants (the under 5’s). I know my Father’s ration was diverted to provide extra sweets for us children at Christmas etc. This one of the last items to be de-rationed after the war. In fact when it was first done, in 1953 I think, the shops were completely emptied of sweets and rationing was re-introduced. After about 6 months de-rationing was tried again and this time it succeeded.

The end of the War

To a large extent the end of the war was widely anticipated. Newspapers and newsreels recounted the allied successes on a daily basis. But the actual VE day was like an explosion of celebration. There were street parties. There were gatherings in the centre of all towns and villages on a completely spontaneous basis. We all walked to Feltham and around the pond near the railway station there was singing and dancing and general celebrations that carried on long into the night. The junketings carried on for days and in my memory the VE day celebrations merged into those for VJ day. I recall we lit huge bonfires at night, which for the duration of the war had been strictly forbidden. But for most people it was events that involved their own lives that really mattered. For my family it was the safe return of my brother Frank. For our next door neighbour, the woman whose daughter had been killed, it was the return of her husband from a prisoner of war camp. Sometimes it was little things that brought home to you how much life was changing. I will always remember the excitement of watching a maintenance crew servicing the tall gas lamp standards on the main road outside our house. When that night they lit up for the first time ever, as far as I was concerned, it was magical. I had no recollection of being able to look the length of a long road and seeing it all lit up. The Christmas lights in Oxford Street, London, are nothing in comparison to that row of gas lamps stretching down our road.

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