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Air Raids
We lived on the railway line to Berlin, and not far from a tank supply depot, which was not a very safe spot. While our village did not get directly bombed, if for any reason planes had bombs left, they were dropped indiscriminately, and if you were in the way, that was just too bad. When the bomb attack increased, many people wandered from shelter to shelter, tying to find the safest place. Several used to spend the air raids in the tunnels between the station platforms on the theory that the structure must be strong in order to be able to hold trains.
Some people sheltered in the cellars of the local school, but sadly that building got a direct hit. One man and a young woman were thrown clear by the force of the bomb, but everybody else, including the young woman’s mother and sister, were killed.
We had given up sheltering at home and went to the ‘chemical mountain’. This mountain had been formed by chemical waste, and was not solid, but springy, and considered to be completely bomb proof. In fact, it once got a direct hit without being damaged.
As with most things there was another side to our safe shelter. It had been extremely difficult to dig tunnels into the mountain at low level, which had been achieved, but what could not be cured was the fact that the tunnels were invariably filled with ground water up to knee height. So we were safe, but wet and cold.
Going to the shelter was not without obstacles. We had to walk along the railway lines, cross them at one point, and walk along a lane with a sprinkling of houses till we came to another railway line. And that is where the trouble started. Almost invariably a goods train blocked our way. It was then a question of climbing over, or crawling underneath, never knowing if the train would move. The soldiers stationed at that site were our salvation. They helped us across. I recall the time I handed my baby brother to one of them under the train who said,’ don’t worry, if the train ever starts I will lie flat on the ground with the baby underneath.’
Thankfully that occasion never arose.
I usually took care of my baby brother while my mother looked after my young sister.
One night we stumbled out of the shelter in the dark after a bomb had hit it. I pushed my brother in the pushchair and found my way blocked by an obstruction that made a funny noise. Guarded torchlight revealed it to be a live power line, which lay on the ground. It must be a lucky chance that I am still here to tell the tale. Miraculously the baby had not come to any harm.
Another of the air raid nights is still vividly in my mind. Walking along the lane towards the shelter we were attacked by low-flying aircraft and had to dash into the nearest of the few houses.
I have been asked since what kind of plane it was, but we didn’t take the trouble to inquire who they were and where they came from, nor did we stop to suggest the pilot had his eyes tested, as I would imagine it would be difficult to mistake a group of women and children for a military unit. But it was war, and these things happened.
Perhaps it is fair to say, that as a rule, American bombers attacked during the day, and British planes during the night.
As we reached the nearest house, we joined the occupants in their cellar, and it was the only time we ever came across a hysterical person. Normally people had no time for hysterics, but got on with the job of survival. On that night the lady of the house had other ideas. She walked up and down, clapped her hands over her head and shouted,’ we’ll all be killed, we’ll all be killed,’ till we almost reached breaking point and thought we’d been better out in the open being shot at. After the all clear we were extremely glad to make our way back home. Of course, on many occasions we’d hardly reached home when we had to rush back to the shelter.

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