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I was six months old when war was declared so my recollections are obviously from the viewpoint of a very young child.

We lived in a pleasant suburb outside Llanelli, in a not very large house on an average income. My parents, like all their middle class acquaintance, had a maid — until the war effort took the young women off to the forces or munition factories, never to return to domestic service. My father was often on Fire Warden duty so, when the air raid siren sounded, my mother would collect me and my necessities while Phyllis, the maid, grabbed the thermos and sandwiches. They would go outside and into the large storage cupboard under the house — called “the booby” for reasons never explained — and wait cosily for the All Clear — until someone pointed out the booby was not the happiest choice of shelter in the circumstances as the pipes for the gas supply ran through it!

As I was a baby and too small to wear a gas mask, my mother was issued with a formidable cradle to protect me from gas. She declared that she couldn’t bear to put me into such a horrible device but, as I don’t believe she had a Plan B, I’m exceedingly glad that we never suffered a gas attack!

Llanelli remained safe from any form of direct attack but Swansea, where my grandmother and her parents were living, was devastated by German bombardment. After the old people had spent three terrifying nights cowering under their kitchen table, my father drove to Swansea and insisted they come and stay with us “for the duration”. (In fact, they continued to live with us for the rest of their lives.)

We five adults and one child managed to fit in somehow — and then came the evacuees — two lively young brothers, John and Alan, from Dagenham. John slept at our next door neighbours’ house but spent all the rest of his time with us. I only remember one problem: as winter approached, my mother wrote repeatedly to theirs asking her to send their winter clothes. When the trunk finally arrived she found that the clothes had been stored unwashed and were so festerous that she could only remove them with tongs and burn them. This greatly upset the boys as it was a slur on “our Mum down Dagenham”, whom they adored but they did get over it and settled in, doing well at school, being conscientious Sunday School attenders and affectionate big brothers to me.

Toys were virtually non-existent, of course, but, when my mother’s dashing cousin Benji visited on leave from the Air Force, he brought me some splendidly stylish dolls’ house furniture, made by aircraftsmen from off-cuts of that great new material for aeroplane windshields — Perspex. And I had a rather spectacular home for the furniture: one Christmas a large dolls’ house was raffled in Llanelli market. Many people bought books and books of tickets but only one could win and it was the single ticket bought by my grandmother!

A regular feature of Christmas in Llanelli was the Hitler’s Nose game, set up in the basement of, I think, Pugh’s department store. This consisted of a huge picture of Hitler’s face and competitors aimed balls at a spot on his nose which lit up when it was hit. I don’t know if any prizes were involved but I think the satisfaction of bombarding the evil enemy was probably reward enough!

Christmas and birthday presents were a problem but my parents’ friends and relations solved it with wool — prickly, prickly Welsh wool, to be fashioned into jumpers and, worse still, skirts by my mother and grandmother. I can feel the pricking on the backs of my legs even now whenever I think about it! Not understanding the reason for the unwelcome gifts, my response to “Look at this lovely wool Auntie Kath’s given you” was cool — but I was only a kid.

I was a swotty kid from an early age and, long before I was old enough to go to school, I could recognise two times on the clock — 10.00 am and 2.00 pm, when the schools broadcasts started. I loved the English lessons and the story of Beowulf was a particular favourite. It gave me a bright idea for boosting the strength of the allies. Bear in mind that I was not older than four and a confirmed believer in fairies: it occurred to me that we could contact Beowulf through the fairies and persuade him to join the conflict on our side. I was disappointed at the cool response from the grownups. Another disappointment was that of the bandage rolling. My mother and her friends did voluntary work each week, packing various supplies and, being a patriotic child and wanting to do my bit, I asked if there was anything I could do. My mother said that perhaps I could roll bandages but she obviously didn’t really want to involve me so made it a condition that I must first learn to count to a hundred. She underestimated me: I lay in bed for a few nights, counting in my head until I was number perfect — but I never did get to roll any bandages.

A frequent sufferer from tonsillitis, I was booked into the local nursing home to have the tonsils removed in the summer of 1945. As my parents drove me to the nursing home bunting was flying overhead. It was VE Day.

My mother talked to me about the ending of the war and said that maybe there would never be any more wars and that I would have to explain to my own children what a war was. Having no memory of a time when there wasn’t war, this struck me as fanciful …..

My last memories are post-war — befriending former enemies when we moved to a village outside the market town of Carmarthen. Between Carmarthen and the village was a Nissan-hutted hospital where a number of German prisoners of war still awaited repatriation. I assumed at the time that they had been delayed because they were being treated for illness or injury but I have learned recently that they were amongst a large number country-wide, held after the war in order to work in local industries or on farms as a form of reparation.

Some of the prisoners from the hospital helped on farms in the village or did gardening and other jobs for local people. My parents were helped by a few of them when they were preparing our house for the move and, on moving day, three or four of them helped us to move our things into the house. This was the very first time I had encountered “the enemy” face to face and I was very frightened. To my dismay, my mother told me to show one of the POWs up to my bedroom as he had offered to carry up a box of my toys. I was a bright child and part of me knew that a prisoner would not be armed and that my parents would not place me in danger but part of me was scared witless as I walked up the stairs in front of someone who, as far as I knew, would have killed me on sight a couple of years earlier, while the war was still going on.

By the end of the day I believe all me fears had disappeared! These were kind, helpful men and my family soon made firm friends of three of them, all very different characters. The oldest was, I think, Mr Wagner — never called by his first name by us or the other POWs. I can’t now remember what his line of work had been before the war but he might have been an academic. He was certainly an educated man with the manners of a gentleman. Everyone respected him and the others told us that he had been the mayor of his town.

Frankie was a musician and had played in a band — the trumpet, I think — before the war. He was tall, good-looking with a pencil moustache and in his late twenties or early thirties, I guess. He was lively and outgoing and was delighted to discover that we had a piano on which he persuaded my grandmother to pay from sheet music which he brought when they came to visit.

Our third friend was Tony, a Czech who had been compelled to join the German army, much against his will. He was small, round and jolly and although he spoke very little English, unlike Frankie and Mr Wagner, he loved the visits to our home when we all had supper together and he joined in the laughter even though he must seldom have seen the joke! He was a tailor in civilian life and made my father a tweed suit.

All three were family men and longing to get back to their families. They said that they had not wanted to fight but felt that they had little or no choice as they and their families would have been in danger if they had refused. We believed them — and I still do. Missing their own families, they became very fond of me and occasionally gave me little presents. They were able to get hold of coloured plastic strands, very popular then, and would make me necklaces or bracelets of plaited plastic and solid bracelets made from strips of metal taken from their bed frames and decorated with the strands.

Some months after we got to know them they were finally able to return home. We were glad for them but did miss their company. Sadly, Mr Wagner, who had had TB and was quite frail, died about a month after his return to Germany. Frankie wrote to tell us and we did correspond with him for a while and sent some parcels, I think.

I will always remember those dear “enemies” with great affection.

The attached photo is of me with my mother’s cousin Frances, a member of the Queen Alexandra Nursing Corps. She came to stay with us after being hastily shipped home from abroad with nothing but the uniform she was wearing.

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