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Aged 9 years, I was evacuated to a village in Buckinghamshire. Scrubbed and polished to perfection for this momentous journey into the unknown.
We all assembled outside our school in South Ealing, West London, exited, but with increasing apprehension as emotional goodbyes took place all around. Tears flowed profusely as mum’s cried out 'Don’t forget to write — Be good — Wash behind your ears, and all the other mother-like platitudes'.
After what seemed to be an interminable journey in red London double-decker buses we were sorted out in the village hall like many bundles of washing. Little girls seemed to be first choice, presumably less trouble than ‘Cockney’ boys as we were termed.
I was among the left-over and put in a car to be touted around the village ‘on offer’.
The car soon stopped and as I sat huddled and dishevelled in the back seat, scared stiff, a crowd of ladies peered in. I could hear the comments — “Don’t ‘e look pale — Poor little soul — Ahhh, poor little Lunnoner, ‘oos goin’ to have ‘im then?” The accents were strange; I must be hundreds of miles from home.
Would I ever see home again?
A kindly smiling young couple opened the car door, “Hello, would you like to stay with us?” I wasn’t sure about anything any more, but slowly trudged behind them into a small bungalow. So commenced a firm friendship with Connie and Bill that was to last for more than 60 years and turn full cycle when Bill became Godfather to my own son some 18 years after that fateful morning.
I was later told that I flatly refused to eat a prepared lunch, insisting that the contents of a ‘goodies’ bag that I clutched, together with my suitcase and gas mask, was for my first meal.
The teachers told us!
What was in it? — A tin of Bully(Corned) Beef, a pot of jam and a packet of biscuits. What a wonderful combination!
As the months went by with little war act activity and none of the expected air raids, thousands of kids were returning home. Parents were searching for excuses to bring their little ‘darlings back.
After just nine months away, I too joined the exodus in reverse back to London just before the Luftwaffe commenced the sustained ‘Blitz’ on London, during which I sustained injury from the blast of a parachute mine.
‘Auntie’ Connie is still alive at 92. Somewhat frail, but with a remarkable memory. We still visit as often as possible and this lovely lady still has the wit to offer us corned beef and jam for tea! — and I still have to ask if I can leave the table.

I had a cat named ‘Stripey’ who after an initial spell under the scullery sink, figured out his own private air-raid shelter in the bath!
He had a total aversion to the sirens. Compared to his nocturnal prowling howl, I guess he thought ‘That’s got to be one hell of a big moggy out there’.
Mother was running a bath. Only 4 inches of hot water in conformity with regulations. The sirens sounded and Stripey raced in from the garden, up the stairs to leap up and over in into the bath.
A sopping wet steaming bedraggled excuse for a cat hurtled through the house spitting and snarling, not to be seen again for two days!
I should have told him, ‘ 200,000 moggies got the chop at the vet’s when this lot started — think yourself lucky!’

Fish was in very short supply and on the rare occasions that adelivery was made to the fishmonger, housewives queued with great patience in the hope of maybe one fish or half a larger one per household.
Later in the war my mother was queuing when gossip filtered down the line of housewives, It’s Whale meat. Goodness me exclaimed mum, “If it’s one each today I’m going to need a bigger shopping basket!”

These are extracts from my recently published book ‘A LITTLE BOY’S WAR’
Published by Brunel Academic Publisher under the ‘New Millennium’ imprint.

Please contact me at GBart41983@@aol.com to discover how to obtain a copy (replacing @@ with @ - the email address has been written in this manner to avoid automatic searches that gather email addresses for mailing lists).

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